


An Everlasting Inferno

by thatawkwardfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angelos date, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awkward Boners, BAMF John, Blood and Violence, Casual Sex, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Reunions, Friends With Benefits, Gun Violence, Homelessness, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, John's danger kink, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Past Sexual Abuse, Pining Sherlock, Reunions, Rival Relationship, Shirtless John, Shower Sex, Smut, Spy John Watson, Temporary Warstan, Torture, Undercover Missions, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, shirtless sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-09-21 14:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 102,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatawkwardfriend/pseuds/thatawkwardfriend
Summary: Sherlock and John are both men who operate outside the law. John works for Mary and her hitmen in order to keep a roof over his head. Sherlock does anything his drug dealer asks of him in exchange for free drugs and housing.They meet one night in a darkened garage to negotiate a deal. But they soon find out that neither of their bosses are being entirely honest with them about their goals or motives. With a little poking around, they stumble upon something much bigger than themselves and discover that perhaps, it might be in their best interests to work together.(Loosely inspired by StartUp and Little Favour)





	1. A Strange Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Hi and thank you for clicking on this fic!! There are some things I want to put out in the open before you read any further. 
> 
> 1\. There is a lot of violence in this fic. This story is graphic and dangerous in nature and there will be some disturbing undertones and themes.  
> 2\. The characters are a bit darker than we know them to be in the show, but at heart, they're still our John and Sherlock, don’t worry. They won’t be unrecognizable, just a bit different due to the circumstances they're in.  
> 3\. There might be some triggering content. I'll be putting warnings at the beginning of chapters when necessary.  
> 4\. There is Warstan in this. But it is NOT a romantic relationship and it is temporary. This is still a Johnlock fic through and through!
> 
> If you find any of that stuff upsetting, you may want to reconsider reading this fic, though I do hope you continue! Alright kiddos, on that lovely note - happy reading!

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of John’s neck as he delivered another blow to the punching bag. The dampened V-neck of his white T-shirt clung tightly to his skin. Probably a bit see-through at this point; he’d been at it awhile. He squared his shoulders to position himself for two more jabs, channeling all his tension from the day into the rapid strikes. God it felt good to let that out, he thought, cracking his neck and shaking his shoulders out. He swiped his hand across his forehead, clearing it of the little droplets that had pooled there, and ran his fingers through his damp fringe. He leaned in close to the bag and delivered a finale of several more hooks before stepping back to shake his arms out.

He grabbed his towel off the chair and ran it over his face and the back of his neck as he looked out the window of his second floor flat. Night had already fallen. Pedestrians strolled up and down the sidewalks. Dim, flickering street lamps cast a yellow glow over the street. 

John’s eyes readjusted to focus on his own reflection in the window. His fringe had once again fallen onto his forehead. He pushed it back and wiped the sweat off onto his trousers. He should probably wash up, he thought, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

He’d lived in this same tiny flat for about four years. Ever since he’d met Mary. Mary had given him his current job, his home, everything he had. It wasn’t much. Just this drab, single-bedroom flat with barely enough room for his bed, a desk, couch, and a makeshift gym consisting only of a treadmill and punching bag. But still, without Mary, he’d probably be on the streets.

She found him when he was 34, struggling and alone. Five years after his sister Harry had dropped everything and moved to Scotland with her new lover. He had been a broke, medical school dropout working odd jobs, lonely and always wondering if he’d be able to afford his next meal. Then Mary showed up and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. And here he’s stayed until the ripe age of 38.

John twisted the handle of his bathtub to get the hot water going. Just as he was about to pull his shirt over his head, he heard a ping from his phone. He rolled his eyes and ignored it. Whatever it was, it could wait until he was bathed and in his pajamas. The phone pinged again, this time, sounding slightly more insistent. With a huff, John strode back into his bedroom to pick up his phone.

Two new texts from Mary. What the hell did she want? He had only left for the night a few hours ago. Annoyed, he opened her messages.

_ New mission. Need you back here. _

Sent: 10:47

_ Now. _

Sent: 10:47

John closed his eyes and breathed evenly through his nose. He knew better than to ask if his presence was mandatory. Suddenly, the rushing sound of the bathwater sounded all the more luxurious, the light steam rolling out the doorway suddenly so much more soothing. With great effort, he returned to the bathroom and shut the water off. If he reeked of body odor upon his arrival at Mary’s flat, well, then that was hardly his fault.

***

Sally Donovan opened the door for him the moment he stepped up onto Mary’s porch.

“In the kitchen,” she said, walking away without waiting for him.

Once in the kitchen, John took his normal seat across from Mary, who was typing away on her laptop and didn’t even glance up upon his arrival.

Her blonde curls were pulled back behind her head with a small clip. John could tell she’d already wiped her makeup off, which made him feel slightly better; at least she’d also planned on being done for the night.

Mary was his and Sally’s boss. Eli as well. Anything she said was law as far as the three of them were concerned. Which was why Sally also found herself here on a Saturday night, looking tired and slightly put-off by their sudden required presence.

“A new client contacted me about a job he needs done asap,” Mary said suddenly. “We need to get the details and start right away, assuming we take this one on. John, I’m going to need you to step up for this.” She looked up from the screen and fixed her eyes on him.

“What do you mean ‘assuming we take it?,’” he asked. “Why would we not take it?”

“Well. This particular client wants the job done  _ for free _ , apparently.”

Sally snorted while John suppressed a laugh.

“You serious?”

“Quite serious. It’s a bit amusing actually. Normally, I’d tell someone like this exactly where they can stick their ridiculous requests, but he’s managed to capture my interest.”

“How so?”

“He’s one hundred percent confident that he could convince us to do it for free if we grant him one private meeting. I doubt he’s right, but what harm is one meeting.”

“And why isn’t Eli taking this one? I’ve only just finished my previous mission.”

“Eli is still working two. He can’t take on another. I need you to scout this one out, John. I trust you’re smart enough to know whether or not to agree to his terms.”

John nodded his assent.

It was an underground hitman operation that Mary ran here. Clients contacted her about people who have wronged them and gotten away with it, people who have escaped the law, have walked free without justice dealt to them, and they paid Mary and her men to take them out.

John knew it was wrong to take these things out of the hands of judges and jurors. But the justice system failed so often and regularly. There were people walking freely who deserved to be behind bars for life. In a strange, roundabout way, he felt like it wasn’t such a bad thing to play a hand in this operation. These were bad people they targeted. Bad people who had wronged others. This job gave him the sense of purpose he’d craved all those years after Harry had left him all alone, had provided him with that adrenaline rush he’d missed for so long.

His job was to do the legwork behind the operations. He scouted out new clients and targets, gathered information, met with people when necessary. Sally gathered what she could from online, and more importantly, made sure their operations stayed safely underground and within the dark net. Eli and Mary, for the most part, did the actual dirty work of killing their assigned targets.

“So when is this happening?” John asked.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Right. And with whom am I meeting?”

 

**********

 

“Sherlock?” called a voice from somewhere behind him.

Or maybe it was beside him. Or in front of him. Sherlock wasn’t really sure. Perhaps he’d imagined it. The heroin did that to him sometimes. He’d learned to not trust his senses – or himself – when he was like this.

That’s why he came here. To this dankly spot under a bridge. Cars rarely ever passed through here. It was the perfect spot really, albeit a little filthy, but who cares. Privacy was what mattered. No one knew about this little haven of his except –

“Sherlock!” came the voice again, this time followed by a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock flinched violently at the unexpected touch. Irene came around to sit beside him, allowing him a better view of her face.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said. “Are you –“ She grasped his jaw in her hand and pulled his face forward, her sharpened fingernails biting slightly into his skin. Her inquisitive eyes darted between his own. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, the disappointment in her voice cutting to his core.

Sherlock pulled his face away from her grip and turned away, tugging his leather jacket tight around his body. He didn’t care what she thought. And to be honest, he didn’t know why she continued to expect anything better from him. 

Sherlock tried to fight off the shivers and trembles quaking beneath his skin. But he knew he couldn’t hide them from Irene. She saw everything. She was almost as observant as him. Almost.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Evans wanted me to fetch you,” she said dismissively, as though that were the least important thing now that she’d actually found him.

She leaned back on her palms. Her legs were swung over the edge of the little platform they sat on, her foot lightly kicking against the cement. She didn’t have to say it. It was bursting in the silence between them already – the last time they sat here together like this.

“Do you still blame yourself?” she asked suddenly.

Sherlock didn’t have to ask what for. Nor did he have to answer. He tucked his chilled hands into his armpits and turned away from her, pretending to suddenly be fascinated by the fading graffiti on his left.

“You shouldn’t, you know. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that before-“

“Irene, I have absolutely no desire to discuss this with you right now,” he said, a bit more harshly than necessary.

“So, what? You expect me to just watch you come back here every year and get high out of your mind to escape your guilt? How much longer are you going to beat yourself up over it? There’s nothing you could’ve done that night to stop what happened. I can’t –  _ I can’t _ watch you destroy yourself over this any longer. It’s been nearly  _ two years, _ Sherlock!”

Sherlock refused to meet her eye. Every word that came out of her mouth was like a knife to his spleen

She was wrong. It had been  _ exactly  _ two years. Two years since she’d found him here on that fateful night, huddled under this same bridge with no extra layers but his sweatshirt to fight off the biting cold.

In all honesty, he hadn’t  _ actually  _ overdosed that night. He didn’t take enough to end his life. Just enough to perhaps, not quite  _ be _ there mentally. . .  for as long as possible without dying. The image of Janine’s dead body was still freshly burned in his mind at the time, and the longer he could go without seeing it every time he closed his eyes, the better.

“Look. I miss her, too,” Irene continued, her voice suddenly gentle and soft. “She made all . . . _ this _ a bit more bearable, you know? Lightened the mood of every room she walked into. Made everyone around her just a bit happier. Once she was gone, there was no forgetting the fact that we’re all trapped here with no escape. So, I get it. Alright?”

The coldness inside him was briefly thawed by the memory of Janine’s warmth.

“Remember when she knew Evans was pissed at us, so she stole his keys, forced us into the back of his car, and drove us to see the fireworks downtown because she thought that would cheer us up?”

Despite himself, Sherlock’s lip quirked up at the memory.

Irene chuckled fondly. “That was the thing about her, wasn’t it. She still found joy in those kinds of things, even though the rest of us didn’t. But she assumed we would. She thought everyone was like her in that way.”

It was true. Janine was one of those people that could still somehow find beauty in the world even when it only dealt her darkness and sorrow. 

“But god, it was stupid of her to try to leave the way she did,” Irene said.

The slowly opening gateway to Sherlock’s innermost emotions suddenly snapped back shut. He hopped down from the platform. This conversation was no longer going in a direction he was willing to allow.

“That’s enough,” he said, ignoring Irene’s pitying, slightly condescending look. “Why did Evans want you to come get me?”

Irene slipped down from the platform.

“He has a new job for us. He wanted to talk about it tonight.  But you’re in no state to do anything other than sleep right now. Let’s just get you back to the house.”

“But Evans-“

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, falling into step beside him and rubbing a hand over his leather-clad back.

They walked together back to the communal house where she, Sherlock, and their boss Mitchell Evans all lived together. The exterior was in decent condition. But inside, the paint was peeling down the walls, the bricks were loose and discolored. There was little lighting except for what filtered in through the yellowed windows. The only color in sight was grey, save for the graffiti covering nearly all of the  downstairs walls. And yet, it had become something of a home to them. Sherlock had been living there for about four years, since he was 30.

Irene led him upstairs to the bedroom he had claimed as his own. He crawled into bed without a word and tucked the sheets around himself. 

“When you wake, fix yourself up and come downstairs,” Irene instructed as she closed the door. Sherlock grunted in response and closed his eyes.

***

Four hours later, Sherlock woke up to voices coming from the kitchen. He dragged himself out of bed and made his way stairs, intentionally stepping where he knew the stairs would creak to make his presence known.

“Sherlock, nice of  you to join us,” Evans said as he entered the kitchen.

A beam of early dawn light was striped across his left eye, illuminating the massive scar that wrinkled and discolored nearly all the skin on that side of his face.

Sherlock never knew how he got that scar, and he knew better to ask. Evans was one of the few people he’d been unable to deduce upon first meeting. It was a sort of gift of his – giving people a single glance-over and being able to tell them their whole life story. More often than not, it pissed people off. He didn’t care. People didn’t like him anyway, so why bother trying to gain their favor. But Evans – from the moment Sherlock had met him, he’d been like a locked box. A challenge. Those didn’t come his way often. Rather than irritating him like it normally did when he couldn’t figure something out, it only elevated his respect for him.

“So what’s this new job?” Sherlock asked, sliding into the seat next to Irene.

“So eager,” Evan chuckled, his voice deep and gravelly as it had always been. “What’s the matter? Used up all your supply already?”

Sherlock averted his eyes in shame at the unnecessary comment. He was thankful when Irene spoke up and moved the conversation along.

“You said something about revisiting a project from your past? And old personal mission or something?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up at this. Something from Evans’ past . . . oh, this could be very interesting.

“Indeed,” Evans said. “But I only need one thing from you two to help me get started. After that, I forbid you to ever ask me about it again. Clear?”

Sherlock and Irene nodded, while exchanging a quick glance at each other.

“Good. I need you two to hire a hitman for me.”

That’s it?

“That . . . should be no problem,” Irene said, also seemingly confused as to the simplicity of their task.

“I should hope not,” Evans said. “One more thing, though, before you get ahead of yourselves. I know what hitmen are charging these days. No way in hell I’m wasting that kind of cash. Whoever you hire, I need them to do the job for free.”

“Free?” Irene sputtered. “I don’t think there’s anyone out there – unless you can pull some kind of personal favor –“

“That’s where Sherlock comes in,” Evans said, rotating his head towards him in a slow, reptilian manner, his lip curling up in a cold grin. “You two find a hitman. Arrange a private meeting with him and Sherlock. Sherlock, you’ll use that trick of yours. Deduce something about him. Tell him you know about his affair or something. I don’t really give a damn what it is.  But use it to convince him to drop the charge, and in exchange, you’ll keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“So . . . blackmail,” Sherlock said.

“Is that a problem?” Evans challenged.

“No, no. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

He knew Evans wasn’t above blackmailing to get what he wanted. That was why Irene was still here after all these years. Though Sherlock could never deduce exactly what dirt Evans had on her, and of course, she refused to tell.

“So who’s the target?” Sherlock asked.

Evans slid a file across the table towards Irene. 

“I’ll leave you two to look that over,” he said. “But I want this taken care of quickly. Don’t waste my time.”

With that, Evans left him and Irene alone to discover the name of the man they were about to have murdered.

 

**********

 

John tucked his face into Mary’s shoulder and thrust his hips up with a groan. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in tighter, helping him to hit that perfect spot.

“Yes,” she panted, grasping a handful of his hair.

John was nearly there, and he could tell she was too, from the way her nails were biting into his bare skin. He sucked lightly on her neck and thrust hard a few more times before coming with a guttural groan. Mary hissed in pleasure, and with just the slightest adjustment of his hips, she too was throwing her head back and shuddering through her climax.

John kept his head in her shoulder as he caught his breath. The moment he rolled back over to his side of the bed, Mary leapt up, slipped her robe on, and left the room without a glance back at him.

John watched her go and then gazed up at the ceiling as he rubbed a hand over his heaving, sweaty chest. Mary’s abrupt departure didn’t faze him in the slightest. They didn’t do the whole “basking in their post-coital glow” thing. They did what they were there to do and that was the end of it. Sticking around for a cuddle wasn’t part of the deal. Neither of them were looking for a relationship of any sorts. But a man has needs, as does a woman. What resulted between them had become something of a continuing, unspoken arrangement.

It started one night soon after John had started working for her. He’d stayed late at her flat to work on a mission they’d been collaborating closely on. Next thing they knew, they’d backed themselves into a wall, kissing fiercely, stripping their clothes off, and had tumbled back into Mary’s bedroom. About a month later, it happened again. And then the week after that. Nothing changed in their professional lives. Mary treated him no differently than she did before; they’d successfully kept it discreet the past few year. As far as they knew, no one suspected anything out of the ordinary whenever John lingered around after everyone else was dismissed for the night.

It wasn’t long after Sally’s departure before Mary began unbuttoning her blouse and heading straight for her bedroom, the invitation more than obvious. He’d followed her without so much as a second thought. Now here he was, alone in her bed feeling sluggish and drowsy with endorphins as the faintest threads of the early dawn light leaked through her curtains.

Outside, he could hear Mary bustling around, maybe making herself another cuppa. But he decided he was content to just lay here a while. Maybe he’d close his eyes, drift off for a bit. Mary usually didn’t mind when he took a quick doze after they had sex.

Suddenly, hurried footsteps raced back to the bedroom. Mary burst inside, slipped her robe off, and tossed it on her chair.

“Shit. John. Get up. Eli’s here,” she said, striding across the room naked as the day she was born. John bolted up in the bed.

“Eli? Why?”

“Don’t know. Just saw him get out of a cab.  _ Get up!” _ she said, picking his t-shirt and pants and tossing them at him. In a matter of seconds, she was dressed in a jumper and sweatpants and back out the door.

John rolled out of bed and wrestled his clothes back on. Outside, the front door to Mary’s flat opened, and the heavy footsteps that could only belong to Eli strode inside. John quietly slipped out of the bedroom.

Before making his way to the kitchen, he took care to open and close the bathroom door loud enough to be heard, thankful not for the first time for its convenient place right by Mary’s bedroom.

“Eli,” he said, making his entrance.

“The hell are you still doing here?”

“It’s called my job. I’ve got a new assignment.”

“Yeah? Well I’ve just finished two. At the same time. Tell me, when’s the last time you managed two kills as quickly as I just did?”

“Never. Because that’s not my job.”

Eli sauntered up to John, knowing full well he stood a good three heads taller than him. John knew what he was trying to do, and he didn’t let him have the satisfaction. He lifted his chin and refused to move his feet an inch. Eli couldn’t intimidate him. But that didn’t stop his little jabs from getting under his skin. He couldn’t help himself. Eli seemed to be laboring under some delusion that being an actual assassin was the most respectable job, and John was just some secretary who ran errands for them.

Mary had offered John the position of being a co-assassin with her when he’d first been hired, but he’d turned it down. He wanted a position that involved thinking, problem-solving. Not just pointing a gun and shooting.

“John,” Mary prompted. “Shouldn’t you be heading out? Maybe start preparing for tonight?”

John could take the hint. She wanted to speak with Eli in private.

“Yeah, why don’t you head on home,” Eli added smugly, puffing his chest out as John walked by so he brushed against him.

That was it. John shoved him back hard so he collided into the counter.

“Step the  _ fuck _ away from me.”

Eli bounced back and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

“Both of you cut it out!!” Mary barked, just as John was preparing to sprain his wrist. He could have easily done it, too. Eli had positioned himself so perfectly it was like he was begging for it. “Eli, let go of him. John, go home. Just go home.”

John collected his jacket, walked past an exasperated Mary pinching the bridge of her nose, intentionally knocking his shoulder into Eli’s as hard as he could on the way to the door.

He stepped out, pulling it shut behind him, and began the journey back to his flat.

The moment he got home, he slipped his gloves back on and resumed attacking his punching bag, eager to relieve the frustration and anger swarming inside him from his encounter with Eli. Afterwards, he allowed himself that bath he hadn’t gotten to take last night. It wasn’t as satisfying during broad daylight. Taking a soak in the hot water was definitely more of a night time thing. 

But he knew what he’d be up to tonight and allowing himself a luxurious soak wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you do right before meeting up with a potential client hiring a hitman.

 

**********

 

Evans let Sherlock and Irene take his car out that night. Neither of them owned their own vehicles, and they needed a getaway car in case things went sour during the meeting. 

They cruised down the levels of an empty, poorly lit parking garage, descending further and further into the ground. Irene had dimmed the headlights, minimizing the disturbance, although the rumble of the engine would have given their position away regardless. Finally, she pulled around and stopped the car one level above the location of the meeting. She switched the lights off and killed the engine.

“Remember,” she said, turning to face him. Sherlock sensed a pep talk coming and reached for the door handle. But Irene was too quick for him and locked it before he could make an escape. “ _ Remember. _ You’re not there to piss them off. Just deduce whatever you need to and offer the deal.  _ Don’t _ push it. We don’t need a repeat of Lenister Gardens.”

Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes. She never failed to bring that up at every opportunity. Honestly, it was  _ one _ time.

“Just get in there, and get out. You have your gun?”

“Obviously.”

“Alright. I’ll be here.” She unlocked the door and allowed him to slip out.

He tucked his hands into his pockets to protect them from the chilly, underground air and walked down to the lowest level of the garage.

The area he’d agreed to meet with the hitman was desolate and empty, lit only by the yellowed, flickering lights on the walls. Sherlock remained safely hidden in the shadows until he heard something coming from the darkened corner opposite him. He squinted, but could only make out a short silhouette.

Finally, a man stepped into the light.

He was short but walked like he had taken on men twice his size and would do it again. It seemed as though, in any room full of people, this man would carry himself like he was tallest in the crowd. The sheer confidence he radiated was so raw it made Sherlock falter backwards half a step.

The man marched forward with authoritative steps. Once in the center of the floor, he swiped his hands across his hips, pushing his jacket back and revealing a hint of a gun strapped to his belt. He scanned the empty lot, clearly growing impatient as he slowly turned in a circle. 

Sherlock unzipped his jacket to give himself easier access to his own gun, and stepped out into the light. The man heard him approaching and instantly turned around. Sherlock noticed he remained rooted to his spot, forcing him to keep walking instead of meeting him in the middle.

A power move. That was fine. Sherlock knew he’d have the upper hand soon enough. He’d let him take this small victory if it made him feel more powerful.

Sherlock strolled up to him at a leisurely pace, demonstrating that he was not the slightest bit fazed by him or his imposing stance. When at last they were standing nearly toe-to-toe, he silently crossed his arms over his chest.

The man had sandy blonde hair with slightly overgrown fringe that fell loosely across his forehead. He was about 5’6’’ but seemed to have the body of an athlete or gymnast. Sherlock see the firm outline of his pectorals and a shadow of chiseled abs through the thin material of his T-shirt.

The man lifted his chin and cocked an eyebrow. Sherlock could tell he was refusing to speak first in another attempt to intimidate him, so he took it upon himself.

“Morstan?” he asked. He had only communicated with “M. Morstan” online, but he could have sworn he’d deduced it was a woman.

“Watson,” the man corrected.

“Holmes,” Sherlock introduced. “So, you’re not the hitman.”

“No. Here representing her.”

Ah. So M. Morstan was a woman.

“I see.”

“So I hear you want your guy killed for free?”

“Indeed. Was hoping you might be willing to cut me a deal of sorts.”

“And why the hell would I do that,” Watson asked, crossing his arms and jutting his chin out in defiance.

He was so close Sherlock could see every pore on his face. He stared coldly up at him, as though daring him to challenge his stance. Sherlock stared back into his eyes, curious as to what treasures were hidden in the depths of those ocean blue irises, if only he could get past this hard façade Watson had put up. 

Sherlock scanned him over and started deducing. Watson had been wearing that V-necked white shirt two days in a row. Not very helpful. He lifted his eyes to the thin line of his lips. His razor was electric, not blade – still not helpful. He had used a new toothbrush that morning, had stayed up late last night, had sex recently . . . Sherlock shook these deductions out of his mind. Come on, there had to be something of use here.

Watson frowned at him, and Sherlock realized he still hadn’t answered his question. He narrowed his eyes in focus, and felt his lip twitch up into a smirk as he finally landed on something useful.

“Oh, I think you’ll do anything I ask. Unless, of course, you want me to tell your sister how you really make your living.”

Watson faltered back slightly. A sliver of pleasure buzzed through Sherlock at the sight of him losing his composure.

“Who the fuck are you?” Watson asked, stepping right back up until their noses were nearly touching. “What the _ fuck _ do you know about my sister?”

Sherlock smirked. He’d taken a total shot in the dark with that one. He’d deduced this man had a sister he hadn’t talked to in a while. How long, he didn’t know. But he knew Watson kept his job a secret. He lived alone, worked in organized crime. . . it was highly likely this sister didn’t know what he got up to.

“I know that one simple kill - free of charge - would mean your secret remains safe,” Sherlock said.

Watson glared at him and stepped back, shaking his head. A dark chuckle escaped his lips, although his eyes showed no sign of humor. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he stated.

“And you don’t think I’d be able to find whatever information I need if you refuse my deal?” Sherlock closed the space between them. “If I could take one look at you and know you have a sister in the first place, do you really think I’m incapable of finding and contacting her.”

Watson swallowed, squaring his shoulders and rising to his full height.  

“You threatening me, Holmes?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a way that usually sent shivers down anyone’s spine, but now only made Watson strand straighter in defiance. Sherlock felt a hint of appreciation and respect for the little display. Not many people could stop themselves from cowering before him once he channeled the power of his height and razor-sharp gaze.

“Depends,” Sherlock said. “You kill our guy for us and we won’t have an issue.”

Watson pursed his lips, which Sherlock noticed were incredibly thin, but finely-shaped. Perfect for his face, really.

“Tell me more about the job first. Then we’ll talk money,” Watson said.

Sherlock’s lips quirked up.  _ Got him, _ he thought. All he had to do was reel him in. But if Watson wanted a name first, he was willing to give him that.

Without breaking eye contact or dropping his smirk, he reached into his jacket to retrieve the file Evans had given him. He licked his finger and flipped it open. Watson furrowed his eyebrows when he held his stare for another long moment.  Finally he dropped his eyes to the contents of the file, and began flipping through the pages until he came to a single document with a name and a very old, blurry photo.

“James Sholto,” Sherlock said.

The color instantly drained from Watson’s face.

 

**********

 

Sholto . . . James Sholto?

Surely it couldn’t be the same . . .

John stepped back, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he tried to choose among the many trains of thought racing through his mind. He hadn’t heard that name uttered from anyone’s mouth in decades. It had become something of a taboo to speak of the Sholtos after the incident.

Images from his past flashed before his eyes. For a moment, dizziness overtook him, and he thought he’d have to sit down.

“Can you . . .” he started, before cutting himself off. His voice came out embarrassingly scratchy. He cleared his throat out and tried again. “Can you give me anything else?”

Holmes squinted at him for a moment before glancing down to his file. John averted his eyes. He’d been doing that since the beginning of the meeting – squinting those bright, aquamarine eyes at him, flicking them up and down his body as though deciphering a code. John thought he normally did a fairly good job of keeping his thoughts concealed, but the power of this man’s stare made him feel like an open book. He didn’t like it. It took everything in his power to not shrink under the scrutiny of that gaze.

“Not until you agree to the job,” Holmes said. “The rest of the information I have here is confidential. But.” He removed one piece of paper from the file. “I can show you this photograph.”

John leaned toward the extended paper. A lead weight dropped into his stomach. The picture was heavily pixelated and taken from a distance, but there was no mistaking that auburn hair, those broad shoulders – even all these years later.

John felt like the ground had just been pulled from beneath his feet. For the last several years, he’d been under the impression that Mary and her hitmen only targeted bad men who had escaped the law. What was his old friend doing getting mixed up in this business?

John blew a heavy breath out of his mouth, his heart thudding so powerfully in his chest, he suspected it was visible through his shirt. Glancing up, he saw Holmes’ bright eyes fixed right back on him, his face slowly transforming as if he’d just struck a gold mine.

_ Shit. _

“Ohhh, you know this man, don’t you?” Holmes snapped the file shut, fully captivated by this turn of events. “How  _ utterly _ fascinating.”

John glared at Holmes, though he was mostly furious with himself for displaying his thoughts so clearly. But he couldn’t help it. Hearing the name “James Sholto” again after all these years – it was like taking a butcher’s knife and slicing open an old wound that never fully healed. A brutal reminder of the closure he’d never gotten after James had disappeared one night without a trace – nearly six months after that fateful night when everything had changed between them.

John exhaled hard again to steady himself. He glanced back up to find Holmes still staring down at him with a gloating smirk.

“What was he to you? A friend? Colleague?” He stared at him with that damn inquisitive look again. “Hm, no. Something tells me you were closer than that. Oh, how interesting.”

“Just shut up!” John burst. But this infuriating man plowed ahead.

“He’s from deep within your past, isn’t he? You haven’t heard his name in quite some time.”

John closed his eyes and shook his head. His head was pounding with a thousand voices all screaming for his attention at once. 

Holmes flipped the file back open and skimmed through the pages with theatrical intrigue.

“Oh, you must not know about any of this then,” he said, raising his eyebrows at whatever he was looking at. “Oh . . . oh, I hope you weren’t overly attached to him. This would kill you.”

John clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. He was going to punch this asshole’s lights out if he didn’t shut his mouth right this damn second. Holmes looked back up at him from under his eyelashes and snapped the file shut again.

“Tell you what, Watson,” he said, his eyes slowly panning down and back up his body. John fought off an involuntary shiver at the heat he felt blossoming along the trail of his eyes. “Forget your sister. I’ll tell you everything you want to know about James Sholto once Ms. Morstan has killed him. How does that sound?”

“Piss off,” John growled.

“So you don’t want to know what’s he’s been up to all these years?”

“Piss.  _ Off _ .”

“So you’re  _ not _ taking the job then?”

John’s head was spinning. There was too much information to process at once. And this man was going to end up with those goddamn cheekbones broken and bloodied if he said another word.

Just then, a low rumbling disturbed the silent backdrop of their rendezvous. A yellow light spilled onto the concrete from around the corner. It brightened as the source got closer, and within a moment, a black car was pulling up to them in the middle of the empty lot.

Panic rose in John’s throat. They weren’t expecting any other company. Holmes was supposed to show up completely alone.

“You fucking set me up!” he yelled, shoving him in the chest.

He was about to do it again, but the confused twitch of Holmes’ eyebrow made him hesitate. Perhaps this wasn’t his doing, but there was no way to be sure. As a precaution, he retrieved his gun and was relieved to see that Holmes was doing the same.

The car doors opened and four suited men stepped out, all armed. John flew to click a bullet into the chamber of his gun. These men didn’t look like they were here for idle chit chat.

“Put your guns down,” one man said forcefully, marching toward them with intense purpose.

Like hell, John thought.

The man fired at both of their legs. Luckily, they both saw it coming just in the nick of time and were able to leap out of the way.

“Guns down  _ now _ .”

The three other men were spreading out and boxing them in from all corners. John and Holmes exchanged a look and lowered their guns to the floor.

“Step back from them.”

They obeyed. The man who seemed to be the leader stooped down to retrieve them.

Meanwhile, the other three men had completely surrounded them. Two of them approached John while the last one zeroed in on Holmes. John was able to see what their intentions were only a second too late. One grabbed the back of his shirt while the other made to entrap his arms. John elbowed the first man in his gut and punched the other one in the jaw. They both bounced back immediately and jumped on him. John got a few good hits in, but at the end of the day, there were two of them and one of him. They had guns, and he didn’t. He ended up with an arm around his throat and a gun to his head.

Next to him, Holmes seemed to have gotten himself into a similar brawl. His nose and lips were dripping with blood. He was being held with his hands behind his back in what looked to be an incredibly uncomfortable angle.

The leader of the pack stalked forward once they had settled down.

“Alright. Let’s make this quick. You tell me what I want to know, and I let you out of here alive. Cooperate, and there won’t be an issue.”

“Look, neither of us have any idea who you are,” John panted. “We won’t have whatever you’re looking for.”

“Where’s James Sholto?” the man asked, taking turns looking them in the eye.

What the hell was happening. John had gone decades without hearing or even thinking about James, and now suddenly everyone was in a race to get to him first.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Holmes said, spitting out the blood that had pooled in his mouth.

Without missing a beat, the man lifted his gun and pointed it directly between John’s eyes. A bit redundant, John thought. There was already one to his head, though he supposed that one was just there to keep him still and pliant.

“Let’s try this again. Tell me or I’ll shoot your little friend.”

John saw Holmes’ eyes widen in panic.

“Wait, hang on! He doesn’t know!” John said. The arm around his throat tightened, choking off his words.

The leader slowly looked between the two of them.

“We received notice that there was a rendezvous here tonight regarding Mr. James Sholto. And you want me to believe you two met here in secret to discuss a man you know anything about?” 

“It’s entirely possible to deal with someone or something as a part of your job without personally knowing much about them,” Holmes said. “Being an arms dealer, you should know this, considering your last business partner sold you parts you failed to recognize as fake.”

Fire flashed in the man’s eyes. The man restraining Holmes kicked him to his knees. Holmes fell with a painful sounding thud, but to his credit, made no sound. 

But when the leader delivered a brutal, backhanded blow to his temple with the hilt of the gun, he couldn’t conceal his grunt of pain. John winced when he saw two drops of blood stream down the side of his face.

“You wanna say that to me again?”

Holmes made a strange sucking sound and then spit another mouthful of blood onto the man’s shoes. Furious, he lifted his gun to deliver another strike. 

No!” John shouted. Another blow like that to the same spot, and he’d suffer a concussion for sure. 

The leader looked at him curiously. John felt his pulse pick up in his neck and nervousness swirl in the pit of his stomach. But at least the attention was taken off of Holmes. 

“Something you want to tell me?” the man asked. “Perhaps you know something.” 

He stalked towards him with slow, predatory strides. John locked eyes with Homes for a split second. The heat in his glare told him he wasn’t happy about his little outburst, but John didn’t care. He’d keep talking as long as it meant the attention was kept on himself. If he allowed Holmes to piss them off any further, he’d end up with a bullet in his head, and John was not about to watch a man be murdered in cold blood. 

“I know who James is,” John said. “But I promise you, I have no idea where to find him.”

The man looked back and forth between them, as though trying to decipher a code.

“You know what? Let me see that file you were holding earlier,” he said. He approached Holmes, who was still on his knees with his arms restrained behind him. He pulled his jacket apart and retrieved the file.

“Excellent,” the man drawled.

John didn’t know what to do, but he certainly didn’t want James’ information in this creep’s hands. He glanced over to Holmes again only to find his eyes already locked onto him. He wore a look that John couldn’t quite decipher. But with the leader now distracted with the file, it could only mean one thing. John nodded that he understood. Then Holmes gave him a look that could only mean “Now.” 

At the same time, they both sprang into action.

John pulled on the arm that was wrapped around his throat, adjusted his footing, and flipped the guy over his back. He straddled his stomach and began wrestling the gun from his hands.

Off to the side, the second man that had attacked him drew his gun. John, who had now taken possession of the gun, fired at his feet. He dropped down like a weighted sack, crippled and no longer a threat. John, meanwhile, kept the first man pinned down under his weight and looked up.

Holmes had knocked out his captor and acquired his gun as well. Though his face, somehow, was now twice as bloody as before. His leather jacket had come off during his scuffle, and he was now left in a sleeveless, blood-stained undershirt. For the first time, John noticed the firm, rounded biceps bulging out as Holmes extended his arm towards the pack leader, shadows contrasting sharply against his pale skin. The tank top clung tightly to his torso, especially around the pectorals where the material was stretched thin. John licked his lips before tearing his eyes away to refocus on the scene before him.

The leader had his gun back out, but seeing his men all crippled, unconscious, or pinned down threw him off his game. He settled on aiming towards Holmes. 

“Let him go,” he said, nodding to the man pinned under John’s hips.

“Let  _ him _ go,” John said.

The man only firmed his stance.

“I think there’s a difference between you and me,” he said. “I’m willing to shoot to kill and you’re not. And since you clearly don’t have any other information-”

John saw his opening and took it. He lifted his gun from his hostage’s head and fired towards the leader. If he’d wanted to, he could have killed him right then and there. But that’s not what he was aiming to do. He only grazed his upper arm, enough to scare him. The file dropped down, within distance for John to leap forward and push it across the concrete floor.

The file slid towards Holmes, and while the pack leader was still distracted, John yelled, “GO!”

Holmes grabbed the file and his jacket, took off running, and disappeared around a corner. Likewise, John bolted the opposite direction, barely dodging the bullets that came firing his way a moment later.

 

**********

 

Sherlock sprinted up the ramp leading to the getaway car, keeping himself hidden in the shadows. Down below, the sound of bullets echoed off the walls. His stomach twisted in knots as he wondered whether Watson made it out alive. But no – there was no time to think of that. Watson was clearly a capable man. He could handle himself, or at least, Sherlock sincerely hoped he could. With a shake of his head, he pushed all thoughts of him out of his mind. 

He wrapped his jacket around his bare shoulders, concealing himself from the icy air inside the cement walls. He skidded to a halt in front of the car waiting silently in the dark and slid inside.

“There you are,” Irene said, starting up the engine. “I heard gunshots below and I didn’t – oh my god, what happened to you?!”

“Drive,” Sherlock said, lifting the hem of his undershirt  to dab at the blood on his lips and nose. Irene continued to gape at him.

“But - Are you alright? What-”

_ “Just drive!” _

After another moment of slack-jawed staring, Irene backed out of the dark corner and sped out of the garage.

  
  



	2. A Tangled Web

John paced the floor of his bedroom.

So Mary had been lying to him about their whole operation for . . . how long? The entire four years he’d worked for her? His only moral justification for taking the job in the first place was that they were getting bad men off the streets when police, judges, and juries failed to do so themselves.

“People like them deserve to be killed. That’s why there are people like me.” Isn’t that what she’d said to him? Has Mary really just been working for the highest bidder this whole time, no matter who the targets were?

Though the one thing he couldn’t get past was why. Why lie to him? Why not just be outright about the work they were doing here? Was she lying to the other employees as well? Did Sally know about this? Eli?

Of course, there was another possibility – one that he didn’t want to consider.

Perhaps James Sholto was indeed a bad man who deserved to be shot. After all, John hadn’t been in contact with him since their school days. Who knew what kind of man he’d evolved into. So either Mary was lying to him about the work she was really doing, or James really had become one of the bad men whose assassination John would have to facilitate. He didn’t know which would be more crushing.  

All of a sudden, his thoughts were interrupted by a chime from his phone. Unsurprisingly, it was from Mary.

_ My place. Now. _

_ Sent 1:43 a.m. _

***

“So? What happened?” Mary asked, sliding him a hot cuppa and the ice pack she’d fetched for him after seeing his bruised face and disheveled hair. “Did you take the deal? I’m guessing not.”   

He shook his head while warming his chilly hands around the mug.

“So, he did that to you then?”

“Ah no. We were interrupted actually.”

Mary was taken aback by this. “By who?”

“Dunno. Some men caught wind of the meeting and showed up unexpectedly. They wanted to kill the other guy, Holmes. Must’ve had some beef with him, I dunno.”

John kept his face down while he narrated his little fabrication. Mary was especially good at telling when people were lying, and he didn’t want her knowing any more of the truth until he knew what was going on himself.  Though in retrospect, he wondered why he hadn’t just blamed his bruised up face on Holmes. He easily could have.

“So what happened?” Mary asked, interrupting his thoughts.

John gestured to his face. “This.”

“How’d you get away?”

“Fought them off. There were four of them. Once we got their guns it was pretty simple.”

“Did you get the name at least? Before all this happened?”

“What name?”

Mary looked at him like he was being dense on purpose. Oh right – the target.

“No, it all happened pretty quickly. We didn’t get that far.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing how on earth this fool thought he could get us to drop our charge.”

John stared down into the mug, remembering the chills he’d gotten when Holmes had merely swept him over with those inquisitive eyes and instantly deciphered his entire history with two different people. It was remarkable, really. If that’s how he got people to do anything he wanted, well, it was a bloody good strategy.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait for him to contact us again if he’s still interested in striking a deal. That is, if he hasn’t gotten himself killed by then,” Mary said. “Until then, it’s out of our hands.”

 

**********

 

“What the hell happened?” Evans barked.

“Irene –” Sherlock started.

“No, Irene told me to get the story from you. She said you didn’t tell her  _ shit _ ,” he spat, fire igniting his eyes.

Sherlock saw an opening and decided to take it. He’d hoped that the mission would give him more insight to Evans’ personal history but he hadn’t gotten much out of it. Perhaps he could extract something useful now. “Okay. Listen. They agreed to the job, but they need more on Sholto before they can locate him.”

“The file wasn’t enough?”

“No. You need to give me something else that I can pass onto them, or else they can’t do much.”

Evans stared at Sherlock suspiciously for a moment while Sherlock prayed that he accepted his story.

“Some ‘professionals,’” Evans scoffed.

“They  _ are _ doing the job for free, sir,” Sherlock reminded him.

Evans considered him for a moment, the jagged scar over his eye wrinkling as his expressions morphed. “Alright. I don’t know where he is, but he’s not in London. Last I heard he’s somewhere up north. Wales, possibly. That’s all I’ve got.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but slump a little. He’d hoped for more, but no matter. He’d simply have to do his best with this. The name “James Sholto” was a key with the potential to unlock all the hidden mysteries of his boss’s past, and he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

Evans stepped forward into Sherlock’s space. “Now get the hell out of my sight and get this job done, you hear me?”

As Evans turned to leave, Sherlock blurted out, “Wait!” He halted, waiting for him to continue speaking, but Sherlock was suddenly overcome with an uncommon stroke of nervosity. “Er, I was wondering if I could have my . . . I did get them to take on the task, so could I . . .?”

Evans huffed in amusement.  “You’re right, Sherlock. You did,” he said in that patronizing tone that never failed to get under Sherlock’s skin. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small zip lock bag containing a generous amount of cocaine. Sherlock took it tenderly in his hand, doing his best to ignore Evans’ condescending sneer.

Since he’d first moved into the house, he’d been paid for his work in drugs. And much to his irritation, Evans seemed to really got off on how dependent it made him.

With a little pat to his cheek that left Sherlock’s face burning in shame, Evans was on his way.

***

A few hours later, Sherlock sat perched on the edge of his bed, leaning over the computer screen as though guarding it from imaginary prying eyes.

“What are you doing?” came a sudden voice from the doorway.

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut like a guilty teenager whose mother had just entered the room. Irene strode in and snatched it from his lap.

“I thought you were out,” he said.

She reopened the laptop. He looked away to avoid the disappointed stare that he knew would come when she saw what he’d been doing: typing “James Sholto” into Google.

“Sherlock, I know what you’re thinking,” she started. “Leave it alone. You don’t want Evans finding out you’ve been snooping for tidbits about his personal life.”

“You can’t tell me you’ve never wondered. He has all this information on us. All this  _ power _ over us. Don’t you wish you knew something about him?”

“I know what my limits are. I know when a project is worth pursuing and when to not be stupid. Something you clearly have yet to learn.”

Sherlock sighed. Irene could see through him in a way that always made him feel on-guard around her – something he’d never felt with Janine. Sherlock missed the days with her; he was always able to deduce her, but she could never do it back, no matter how hard she tried. It made their dynamic much more enjoyable.

His insides suddenly went cold at the image that flashed into mind - the one that haunted him at night.

The one where Janine stood in front of him, staring blankly at the dark blood gushing through the material of her shirt. Her eyes lifting and locking onto his. Nothing in his life –  _ nothing _ – would make him forget the way she looked at him as she dropped to her knees and collapsed onto the floor, the light fading from her eyes in an instant.

Sherlock shuddered at the memory that still appeared in his most graphic nightmares.

Irene lowered herself to sit beside him. “Sherlock, what could you possibly hope to get out of all this prying? Do you think-” She cut herself off. “No . . .”

“What?”

“You’re looking for a way out, aren’t you? You’re so deep under Evans’ thumb, you want to learn everything you can about him to work your way out of here.”

“No.”

“ _ Yes. _ Sherlock, I’ve worked for him far longer than you. Why do you think I’m still here? It’s because he has an iron tight grip on me and I’m smart enough to know that there’s no point in fighting it.”

“Blackmail.”

“Exactly. He’s got loads of shit on me. And he’ll find something on you, too. He’ll always find a way to keep us here, whether we like it or not. That won’t change, no matter what you dig up on him. He’s bulletproof.” She paused, as though reconsidering her next words. “Remember Janine?”

Sherlock fixed her with a heated glare.

“Learn from what happened to her, Sherlock. Leave Evans alone.”

Irene squeezed his shoulder comfortingly before standing up. She took her laptop with her and left him alone in his room.

Sherlock had spent the whole night dissecting and unravelling what happened at the rendezvous with Watson. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to dig deeper into what had happened, and nothing Irene had just said deterred him in the slightest. 

Who was this man James Sholto, and why were so many men after him?

And Watson. Who was Sholto to him? What happened between them that made such expressive, cobalt blue eyes suddenly flash with vivid pain, confusion, and hurt?

The poor man didn’t know what had hit him for a solid minute after Sherlock revealed the name of their target. Sherlock had deduced there was more to their past than a friendship. Perhaps a very close friendship? No . . . something deep was triggered in Watson’s eyes. An old, deeply buried pain was extracted. There was more to their story. And Sherlock was burning with an unquenchable thirst to know more.

There was only one solution.

 

**********

 

John and Mary lay beside one another, chests heaving, and skin glistening in sweat. As Mary pulled the sheets up around her naked body, John glanced at the clock on the nightstand and cringed at the time. It was far too late for him to be here. If he stayed any longer, he might as well just spend the night, and he and Mary both knew that would cross the unspoken boundaries their arrangement. He started to sit up, eager to get to the bathroom and wash up, but a warm hand on his arm stopped him.

“John,” Mary said gently.

“Yeah?”

He resettled into the covers as she propped herself on her elbow to talk to him. Something about the sad, uncertain look in her olive green eyes halted all his thoughts of freshening up.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I know you’re lying.”

John’s face contorted into a puzzled frown.

“Lying?”

“There’s something you’re not telling me. About last night. The meeting. With Mr. Holmes.”

Ah. John recalled the story he’d come up – that they were interrupted by a gang looking to kill Holmes before they got around to striking a deal. He’d thought it was a pretty good coverup. It wasn’t too far of a stretch from the truth.

“I told you exactly what happened,” he said, as convincingly as he could.  

Mary smiled at him condescendingly and rolled over so she was straddled on top of him.

“Oh, John,” she breathed into his ear. “You’re an absolutely terrible liar.” She sucked a sweet, sensual kiss right on the pulse point of his neck, one of his more sensitive areas.

“Just tell me.” Another kiss on his jaw as she trailed her fingers up his arm. “It’s okay.”

John was still coming down from his sex-riddled high, and Mary’s little ministrations weren’t helping him in the slightest to calm down. Leave it to her to bring up an issue like this when his brain was muddled with endorphins and his body sensitive to any and all forms of touch.

“I won’t be upset with you,” she whispered into his ear – making him shudder involuntarily –  right before taking the lobe between her teeth.  _ Shit. _ That absolutely did him in. Every damn time. “What really happened last night?” She ran her finger down his neck and torso before skimming it over his flaccid cock. “What did Mr. Holmes tell you?”

At the mention of that name, an unbelievably vivid image of dazzling, turquoise eyes flashed before his vision. Much to his surprise, he felt his cock twitch a bit in Mary’s hand. She smiled into his skin at the feeling.

“What do you know, John?”

He released a shuddering breath and bit his lip to conceal a hum of pleasure.  

“If not a name, did Holmes give you any other information?” 

His mind was riddled with confusion. Some primitive part of his brain latched onto the brief but sharp memories associated with the name “Holmes,” while the rest of it battled with the visual evidence that it was Mary who was on top of him right now. The result was a mixed jumble of images flashing in his mind’s eye – some of wispy, blonde ringlets and rosy lips, and some of dark, curly locks and razor sharp cheekbones.

“Did Holmes perhaps give you a location? A photograph? Anything?”

_ God, stop it _ , John begged mentally.  _ Stop saying his name. _ His brain obviously couldn’t tell which mental picture to focus on while she was fondling him, but his cock was loving every moment of it. He swallowed the words on the tip of tongue and mustered every bit of effort in himself to overcome her tactics.

“You already know everything I know, Mary,” he said a bit shakily.

All of a sudden, sharp fingernails were biting into his jaw. All images of sparkling, blue eyes and dark, ravenous locks vanished into the air like thin smoke. The glaring face of Mary Morstan came sharply into focus instead as his erection wilted from the pain.  

“Don’t lie to me,” she said, her voice sharp and direct. “What else happened?”

“Alright! The thugs weren’t there to kill Holmes,” he said, trying not to trip over his words. “They were after the same target he was about to give me. They wanted to get to him first so they tried forcing him to give up all his information. But I still got away before a name was ever mentioned. They had guns, and it wasn’t going to end pretty. I had to get out of there.”

Mary’s stern eyes bore down into his, deciding whether or not to buy his story. John mentally pleaded with her to accept it. It was honestly as close to the truth as he was willing to get.

“What else?”

“That’s it,” he grumbled, growing fed up with this sadistic game of hers. He shoved her off of him, just a tad rougher than necessary, and swung his legs over to sit on the side of the bed. “Jesus,” he groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“You couldn’t have stuck around another minute or so to catch a name before bolting?”

“No, I couldn’t,” he replied sharply. “Was kind of preoccupied with not getting my brains blown out.”

He hopped off the bed and strode to the bathroom, shutting the door none too gently behind him. For a moment, he braced himself over the sink and stared down at his naked, limp cock, remembering with confusion how quickly it had jumped to life at the mere mention of Holmes. What the hell was that about?

John shook it off and turned the tap on. It probably had nothing to do with the man himself. The mind went to strange places when it came to sex and hormones and all that. It didn’t necessarily have to mean anything. Holmes was an attractive man. There was no shame in admitting that. The same thing probably would’ve happened no matter who Mary had been talking about, as long as the person was at least somewhat good-looking.

John tested the running water with his finger. When it warmed to a decent temperature, he filled his palms with a handful and splashed it onto his face.

***

As soon as John entered his flat, he opened up his laptop and typed “James Sholto” into Google. Instantly, countless results came up. Mostly news pieces from decades ago reporting the awful tragedy that had permanently changed James as a person, and by extension, their relationship. Article after article:

_ Man Kills Wife in Domestic Spat in Front of Son _

_ Local Man Repeatedly Stabs Wife During Dispute _

_ Man Murders Wife in Front of 16-Year-Old Son _

John shook his head to himself, the horror resurfacing in him from reading these headlines again after so many years. He’d never forget the morning he first heard the news and sprinted over to James’ house only to find it taped off and surrounded by police cars.

James was his best mate back in school. Naturally, John knew his parents had issues. He just didn’t know how bad it was. Until that day.

James was never the same from that point on.

Once he returned to school, he kept his head down and avoided John all day. And the next day. And the day after that. In fact, John couldn’t seem to remember them ever speaking again, save for a few months after the incident when James had bumped into him on his way out of the loo. He’d mumbled a quick “sorry” and scurried away without even glancing back at him. As though they were just strangers bumping on the tube. As though they hadn’t shared some of the best years of their childhood together. As though they were nothing.  

John understood why James had cut him off. He willingly gave him space he so clearly needed. The thing was, they just never picked up again after that.  

Next thing he knew, James had disappeared. Picked up and left in the middle of the night without a trace or a word to anyone. Only two months before graduation, no less. And no one ever heard from him again.

John remembered how his grounding had shook when he first heard that James ran away. They hadn’t spoken for six months at that point, but it didn’t soften the blow of the news. It was like an integral part of him had been forcefully torn away. Though he moved on with his life of course, as everyone eventually did. And James became a mere blip in his past.

Now here he was, doing his best to dig up anything on this man who had essentially erased himself from existence, save for this one tragedy. John got to the second and third pages of Google, and couldn’t find one reference to James Sholto that had nothing to do with the murder of his mother. It was only when he restricted his search to news articles from the past ten years that he finally found something.

It was a printed article than had been archived online from some small, faraway town called St. Asaph. The only mention of James was one single quotation from him, since as the night guard of the museum across the street, he’d been a witness to the almost-robbery.

A museum night guard, huh. Perfect job for someone who wanted to be left the hell alone, really. And a perfect city he’d chosen to settle in, too. St. Asaph was, apparently, the second smallest city in all of Britain. And it seemed nothing of interest happened there either, if a near-robbery was considered newsworthy by a local paper.

John closed his laptop, accepting that he probably wouldn’t find much more online. He silently admired James for how well he’d wiped himself off the grid. That level of disappearance took skill and dedication.

John slipped into his pajamas, now pondering the question he’d been avoiding since his meeting with Holmes. What was his motivation here toward James Sholto?

Was he lying to Mary to protect him?

Did he want to warn him that killers were after him?

Was he going to try to save him?

Did he want to find out why he was targeted?

Or was he just curious about the whereabouts and wellbeing of his old friend, and desperate for closure from their tragic past?

John really had no idea what he was doing here, or what he intended to do if he managed to track him down. All he knew was that ever since hearing James’ name the other night, he hadn’t stopped thinking about him, nor had he been able to shake the feeling of a continuous gravitational pull towards him.

He didn’t know why, he didn’t know how, but he knew that he had to see him again.

***

The next day, John and Sally sat around the kitchen table at Mary’s flat while she read out potential new assignments. Sally listened intently and gave her input every now and then, but John’s mind was on another planet. He’d stayed up all night wondering about the logistics of tracking down James. What would he say to Mary? How would he get there? Once he got to St. Asaph, how would he find out where James lived?

“Eli’s not here though, otherwise he could do it,” Mary said, almost to herself. John perked up. “Shame. He loves the ones that require travel. Anyway, the next-”

“Wait, I could do it,” John said. Both Sally and Mary looked at him in surprise.

“You’ll take on Operation Stamford?” Mary asked. She always gave their jobs silly titles instead of calling them by the actual target’s name, as an extra form of protection.  

“Yes.”

“This is usually the kind of job Eli would do. He’s an assassin. You’re not.”

“Yeah, well, Eli’s not here, is he?”

“This one requires you to leave town for a bit. You hate traveling.”

John swallowed. “Well, the job with Holmes fell through, so I need something to do. Might be a nice change of pace.”

He kept his face neutral as Mary stared at him. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was as though the stars had aligned specifically for him. If he took on this mission, he’d be able to leave London without suspicion and go find James. He could always blame his failure to kill the target on his lack of experience as an actual hitman. It was so perfect it was almost unbelievable.

“Alright. Yes, you’re right. Eli’s not here. He’s missed his chance. John, Operation Stamford is yours.”

John gave a silent, internal cheer as Mary slid a folder across the table to him, which contained all information vital to the mission he was about to completely ignore. The rest of the meeting dragged on with John not consuming a single word of it.

The moment he got home, he pulled his duffel bag from under his bed and began packing for St. Asaph.

 

**********

 

Sherlock held up the small bag of white powder, appreciating how the simplicity of its appearance completely undermined the extent of its power. He considered tucking it into a corner of the bag he was packing, but he hesitated.

This was a mission, not a vacation. He wouldn’t have time to sit around for a recreational high.

He was almost finished packing. Just a few more things and he’d be ready to leave. He considered sneaking into Irene’s room and taking her laptop with him, but he decided against that as well. She’d already been so helpful. Plus, he knew she’d rat him out to Evans in an instant if he stole from her. If he left her alone, there was at least a chance she’d cover for him once he was gone.

Sherlock zipped up his bag and swung it over his shoulder. He went downstairs, passing a few unconscious junkies along the way.

Once outside, he hailed a taxi and began his journey to find James Sholto before the assassins did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment if you can! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)


	3. Old Friends and Enemies

The train ride to St. Asaph took up most of the afternoon.

“You can let me out around the corner,” Sherlock said to the cabbie. 

He paid the driver and was left standing on a wide hilltop, gazing out onto the wondrous Vale of Clwyd. Low, rolling hills of all shades of green stretched out as far as the eye could see. The occasional countryside houses were spread along the countless valleys; they were spaciously parted enough to create the illusion of privacy, but from Sherlock’s distance, they seemed to form a small community.  

Sherlock trekked down the hill until he hit a flat valley. Imbedded into the hill ahead of him was a small, single story cottage.

The home of James Sholto.

Sherlock stayed in the shadows of the trees as he advanced forward, wondering what he would say upon reaching the man’s doorstep. He’d of course warn him about the men out to kill him, but he mainly wanted to know about his relationship with Evans, and if anything about it would be useful in terms of getting out from under his thumb.

Suddenly, a twig snapped on his left. Sherlock quickly flattened his back against the nearest tree and scanned the valley, but only found wispy grass and trees in all directions. Surely there was no one else here on this remote little hillside where only one man resided, he thought.

Unless, of course, the hitmen or arms dealers had arrived before him.  

Sherlock peered around the trunk, hyperalert to any flicker of movement or unnatural sound. Then he saw it. The shadow of the tree to his left was just a bit too wide, too lopsided.

There was a man behind it.

He crept ahead until he saw the beginnings of his outline, but remained distant enough to stay hidden. Slipping his gun out of his back pocket, he noticed that he was perfectly positioned for a kill shot to the back of the head. The man would never even know what had hit him, and he could be on his way. He closed one eye, perfected his aim, and inched his index finger carefully around the trigger.

**********

John leaned against the tree and gazed out towards the tiny, stone cottage. In all his years, he never would’ve guessed that James would end up somewhere like this. A quaint little home, nestled cozily into a sunny hillside. It was too picturesque for a man like James who enjoyed rugby and roughing it in the woods on occasional weekends. Then again, John had to painfully remind himself that he didn’t know James anymore – only the 16-year-old version of him.

The thought left him with a hollow pit in his stomach. He was essentially visiting a stranger’s home. No, this wasn’t a stranger. This was his old mate James.  _ His _ James. God, was he really about to see him again after all these years? What would he say? Would James be happy to see him? Or would the sight of his face only bring back all the pain and heartache he’d tried so hard to escape? Perhaps this whole trip had been a mistake. After all, no one became a recluse like this unintentionally. Perhaps he should just –   

The faintest flicker of movement behind one of the windows caught John’s eye and sent his heart racing. Could it be him? The possibility filled him with such restless, vibrating energy he suddenly couldn’t stand wasting another second hiding behind a tree like a coward. He braced himself, ready to march onwards onto the seemingly endless expanse of land between himself and the front porch.

John stepped out from behind his tree, but was immediately tackled to the ground from behind.

His instincts kicked in as he bucked his attacker off of him and took a dive for the gun he saw in his hands. The man fought back, and the two of them clumsily rolled around in the grass, both taking several elbows to the gut and kicks to the chest.

John finally twisted his attacker’s wrist until he dropped the gun, knocked him flat on his back, and rolled over on top of him. As the man struggled underneath him, John held him down with his hips and pinned both his bony wrists to the ground. Just as he was about reach for the abandoned gun, a vaguely familiar voice called out, “Watson!” 

John stopped and lowered the gun. He yanked the hoof off his attacker and found a pair of bright, turquoise eyes staring up at him – eyes he never expected to see again but remembered so clearly it was like he had known them his whole life.

“Holmes,” he said, breathless from exertion. Holmes blew a ragged curl out of his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I might as well ask you the same question.”

“James is my – I’m here to see him. You, on the other hand, wanted him killed.” John tightened his grip on Holmes’ wrists.

“I’m not here to kill him. On the contrary, I was under the impression that’s what you were here to do, so I was going to stop you. Then I figured that before shooting you I should probably find out if you brought along any accomplices.”

John frowned at him, looking skeptically between his eyes.

“I just wanted to talk to him.”

“Yeah, that’s likely,” John scoffed.

“I’m serious.”

“You already know that James and I – that we know each other. Why would you think I’m here to kill him?”

“I didn’t recognize you, all right? Thought you might’ve been one of the smugglers from the other night.”

“How did you find him anyway?”

“Probably the same way you did. I took a train to Wales after receiving a tip that he might be here. Figured a wanted man would probably live in a smaller city. That narrowed it down quite a bit. I happened to start my search here and began poking around. Didn’t have much luck until I met his manager at the local museum. Of course, they can’t give out an employee’s confidential information, so I deduced him, logged into one of the computers, and found Sholto’s address.”

John blinked slowly at him, completely lost for words.

“You  _ deduced _ the manager?”

Holmes huffed impatiently, as though being forced to explain the workings of his mind to a child. “His office was covered in merch of his favorite football team. Tucked into one of his poster frames was a ticket stub to a game he attended a few years ago. I simply tested a few different combinations of players’ names, numbers, and the date of the game until it worked. It was child’s play, really.”

John gaped at him in amazement. It was brilliant. It truly was.

“And you did all this . . . just to speak with him?”

“My boss is the one who wants him killed, not me. So they obviously have some kind of history. Personal, profession, who knows. But I, er, need to know more about it. For my own reasons.”

“You want dirt on your boss?” John asked.

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, but one can fill in the blanks. I’m not an idiot.”

This time it was Holmes who blinked curiously at him as though seeing him for the first time.

“And, um, you’re here simply to reconnect with your old . . . friend?”

“Yes and no. I’m not completely sure. Guess we’ll both find out what I’m here for when we go inside, yeah?”

He caught himself only when it was too late.  _ We? _ Had he really just said that? The wording had obviously not gone over Holmes’ head either. For a moment they locked eyes, both equally as curious and suspicious as the other.

“Erm, Watson,” Holmes eventually said, squirming uncomfortably in the grass.

John only then realized he was still sitting atop Holmes, pinning his wrists to the ground.

“Oh god, sorry,” he said, rolling off of him. He felt blood rushing into his cheeks as he rose up, dusting the grass off his trousers and avoiding Holmes’ eye at all costs.

Holmes either ignored or didn’t notice John’s proffered hand as he awkwardly lifted himself from the ground, so John instead used that hand to rub over the back of his head. He watched as Holmes dusted off his jacket and used his fingers to tame his wild curls.

“Erm, shall we?” Holmes asked.

John extended his arm in an “after you” gesture, his face still flaming hot and most likely scarlet red.

Holmes started ahead of him, but walked at a pace that allowed John to catch up to his side so the two of them could walk to the house together. Looking ahead at their destination filled John’s stomach with dreadful anticipation, so he opted for watching their feet instead. He couldn’t help but notice how perfectly their steps lined up, as though walking with Holmes was the most natural thing in the world, as though they’d been walking side by side for years.

He thought back to what he’d said when Holmes had asked him why he’d come to St. Asaph. It was partially true and untrue that he wasn’t sure why he’d tracked James down. He didn’t know what he’d say to him after all these years, didn’t know why he felt such a magnetic pull towards him. But there was one thing he was burning to know, one specific thing he needed closure on; why did James leave him without a trace or even goodbye? Why did he cut him off and never reach out again?

If John could get his answer to that, then it would not be a trip wasted.

Soon, the shadow of the cottage crossed from the grass onto their shoes as they neared their destination. John was surprised at how quickly they’d crossed the open land. Knots twisted in his stomach thinking of seeing James again for the first time in decades. Throwing Holmes into the mix should’ve made things way more complicated, but for some reason, his presence calmed something inside him. It was comforting to face this with someone else instead of alone, even though Holmes was practically a stranger.

John hopped up the steps of the porch and scanned the doorway top to bottom as Holmes followed behind him. It was the most un-James-like setup he’d ever have anticipated. Bright teal paint, a wreath of magenta berries, potted plants . . .  It all served as a reminder of how much time they’d been apart, how little John knew about the man he was about to see. He took a deep breath, shook his arms out to rid them of the tension, and knocked on the door. Next to him, Holmes stood rigidly with his arms behind his back, fingers drumming restlessly over his clenched fist. 

One of the curtains parted slightly to reveal a pale, blue eye. John locked gazes with it and felt his heart race into the sky. It was him. It was really him. There was no mistaking that periwinkle blue iris. The sight of it brought back a rushing swarm of memories: walking to school together, rugby practices, first dances and dates, all of it.

The curtain dropped, and the door opened to reveal a finely aged James Sholto.

John’s attention was immediately drawn to the marred skin on left half of his face. It seemed to be an old injury, perhaps a burn. But he tore his eyes away from it, knowing he’d ask later, and instead took in his faded auburn hair, cropped short unlike the shaggy mess it used to be, that familiar crease between his eyebrows, the addition of crow’s feet and faint wrinkles to his skin. It was all so achingly familiar and yet, it was like looking at a total stranger.

“James.” John whispered the name in quiet reverence, revelling in all that it had meant to him in the crucial adolescent years of his life.

He watched James’ mouth start to form his name, but it fell dead on his lips. John’s own mouth stretched into a weak smile. The fragile air between them was like a thin veil of glass that could be easily shattered by a single word. And so the silence stretched on, neither daring to be the one to take that risk.

Eventually Holmes, who John had almost forgotten about, stepped forward and extended his arm.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. James tore his eyes from John and considered the tall man in front of him before taking his hand and shaking it awkwardly, as though he hadn’t shaken a hand in years.

_ Sherlock _ , John repeated in his head, liking the sound of it.

“Sholto,” James greeted with a voice much thinner than John remembered. “But I’m sure you already know that.” He dropped Holmes’ hand and returned his attention to John, who could only beam at him in unabashed wonder.

“Er – my apologies,” James said suddenly. He stepped aside and opened the door wider to allow the both of them entrance. “Come inside?”  

When John and Holmes –  _ Sherlock _ – entered the cottage, he noticed James quickly slip a gun inside a nearby drawer. Puzzled, he looked over to Sherlock, who with a single glance, told him that he’d noticed it too.

James had answered the door with a gun? That seemed a bit overly paranoid to John. Looking around, he couldn’t imagine feeling so on edge living in such a bright, cheerful home surrounded by miles of gorgeous scenery.

“Please, make yourselves at home,” James said, gesturing to his cozy living room.

John sat next to Sherlock on the couch, across from the only armchair which was probably James’ seat. Behind them, James busied himself in the kitchen, clumsily bustling around like he wasn’t used to having company and had no idea how to host. John wondered if he should offer to help, but decided he’d rather not leave Sherlock sitting all alone. The poor man was rigid as a rod, back stiff, lips pursed, looking similarly like he was unaccustomed to being in the company of others.

Looking between the two of them, John amused himself listing the similarities he noticed. Sherlock and James were both tall, lean, and intimidating when they chose to be. Both seemed incredibly reclusive and introverted, to an almost inhibiting point. Both could hold their own in a fight.

Both had defined cheekbones, firm muscle structure. Bright blue eyes that seemed to stare right through you and into you at the same time . . .

“Tea?” came James’ voice, pulling him back to the ground. “Wasn’t sure how you like it,” he said fretfully as he passed them small cups with trembling hands. “Help yourself to the cream and sugar. I’ve also got honey in the cupboards if you want some. Or lemon, cinnamon, whatever you want . . .”

“It’s perfect, James, thank you.” James smiled at him, both relieved and grateful as he settled into his armchair.

Sherlock blew softly into his cup. “I’m more of an Earl Grey kind of-”

John kicked him softly under the coffee table.

“So James,” he said, leaning forward onto elbows. “How – how are you?”

“I’m well. Thanks. Been living here for, I’d say, about ten years. Left London, never looked back once.”

Yes, John was well aware of how much he’d severed his ties to London.

“And . . . you’re happy? Here?”

He gave a single, firm nod.

John tried to be happy for his friend, tried to smile for him, but felt that the attempt didn’t even come close to reaching his eyes. He couldn’t help feeling somewhat hurt that his friend never attempted to reach out again after he got his life back together.

“And you?” James ask. “What are you up to these days?”

“Oh just . . . you know. This and that. Working.” He winced as the word came out of his mouth. He’d just opened the door to the natural follow up question he most certainly didn’t want to answer.

“What do you do?”

“I, er, plan and organize tasks for my boss.”

“Didn’t get into medical school then?”

“No, I got in,” he shot back, a hint of bitterness polluting his tone. “It’s just, you know, some stuff came up with Harry. Finances. It didn’t work out.”

“That’s a shame. Still in London, then?”

“Yeah.”

He slightly resented how James made it sound like a failure on his part. There was nothing wrong or shameful about staying in the city he grew up in. The city  _ they _ grew up in. Fleeing your problems by disappearing in the middle of the night without a word to anyone – now there was something to be said about that.

He looked up at Sholto, fully recognizing for the first time how much had changed between them. They used to chat and joke around like old mates. Now, a strange layer of sullen iciness coated every line between them. They used to wrestle, hug, naturally sit close to one another on the rugby benches. Now, he felt awkward simply leaning in too close over the coffee table that separated them.

John caught his eye and felt an aching tightness in his chest at the sadness in James’ smile, like he was thinking and feeling exactly the same way as him.

“So how do you two . . .” James asked, looking between John and Sherlock.

“Oh, he’s not – we’re not-”

“I’ve come to talk to you about Mitchell Evans,” Sherlock said.  

James froze with his teacup halfway to his mouth, his eyes darting frantically between the two of them.

“How do you-”

“He’s my boss. Owns a communal house. We have a simple deal. I do his dirty work, he doesn’t kick me out into the streets,” Sherlock rattled off at a mile a minute. “I was recently instructed by him to hire an assassin. That’s how I came into contact with Watson here.”

John opened his mouth to stop him, but it was too late. The words were out. He was only able to hold James’ look of undisguised shock for a second before averting his eyes in shame.

“Oh. You didn’t know. My apologies, Watson.” The words, to John’s surprise, sounded completely genuine. Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat until he nodded at him, both in forgiveness and in permission to continue.

“Anyway,” Sherlock said. “Our target, as you may have figured, was none other than yourself. Fortunately or unfortunately, my meeting with Watson was cut short and we were unable to finalize a deal. I’m here now because I need to know why my boss wants you killed.”

“And you came with him?” James asked John.  

“No. I came on my own because I . . .” The words died on his tongue. Somehow, now that he was here, he couldn’t tell him about the burning need he’d felt to see him again. How upon hearing his name that night in the garage, he hadn’t once stopped thinking about him. How he was desperate to know why James had left him behind like he was nothing.

“I wanted to warn you,” he said, clearing out the croak in his voice. “You’re a very wanted man, James. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

James stared unblinkingly at him. Not in wonder, amazement, or even appreciation. But in bemusement.

“Why would you do that?” he asked with an unexpected bite to his tone. “You have no idea what kind of business I was once wrapped up in. None of this has anything to do with you.”

John flinched, taken aback. Should he not have been concerned for his old friend? Was he supposed to just sit back at let the armed thugs find him first?

“That was very unwise of you,” James continued. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to apologize for coming all the way here to potentially save your life?”

“I saved my own life years ago by moving out here. You think I don’t know how many people out there want my head on a stick? When a man drops everything to move where it’s highly unlikely he’ll be found, it means one of two things. Either someone’s after him, or he wants a fresh start free from the burdens of his old life.”

“Believe me, I heard the message loud and clear when you ran off without even telling me.”

“Then why did you come here?”

It wasn’t his tone that cut into John’s core like a spear. He never once raised his voice. No, it was the icy detachment with which he spoke, the way he could speak about their history with such calm distance and indifference.  And now John found himself unable to answer the question which he had posed. He pursed his lips, sinking in the suffocating feeling that perhaps coming here had been a mistake after all.

Beside him, Sherlock uncomfortably cleared his throat. “So, you did know Evans then?”

“I did,” James replied, giving one last, lingering glance to John before turning his attention to Sherlock. “At some point during my youth I, er, ran away from home so to speak.”

John turned and pointedly fixed his gaze out the window while James spoke.

“And I sort of went into a downward spiral. I became an alcoholic. To make money, I got involved in some illegal activities. Through the network, I met Evans. I had some money, he had ideas. We had fun for a while, but one day he tried to take things too far, and I had to step away. That was my biggest mistake. Defying him.”

“What do you mean? What ideas did he have?” Sherlock asked.

“You have to understand, Evans was a very angry young man. There was a lot simmering under the surface, and I think the whole time we’d worked together, he was looking for some sort of outlet for it. He wanted to do something so horrible . . . I couldn’t. All those small, petty crimes, I could handle. It was just for the thrill, you know. But this-”

“What was it?”

“He wanted to set fire to St. Bart’s hospital. To burn the whole thing down.”

At this, John’s head snapped back to James, and then to Sherlock, who was wearing an expression accurately reflecting how he felt.

“How . . . why would he want to do that?”

“We spent some time studying the layout of the hospital. The whole time, I thought we were just planning to break into a lab and steal some chemicals. But then one night, in the basement of this random crack house, he showed me his small stash of arsonist supplies and told me his real plan. I refused to participate. We got into a fight, with the gasoline and all that stuff in between us, and ended up starting a fire by mistake.”

“That’s how you scarred your face,” Sherlocks declared as though he were stating a fact rather than speculating. John studied the marred half of James’ face, impressed once again by his amazing observational skills.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” John asked.

“Ah. Well, unfortunately one man died. Turns out he was a highly valued member of some group of arms smugglers in the area. They were after me for a while. Wanted revenge.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a quick, knowing look.

“So . . . after the fire?”

“Evans and I parted ways, of course. He had his ridiculous, unachievable plan. I had several angry men out to kill me. I cut myself out of all criminal networks and ran away again. Ended up here after some years. No one’s found me until now.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said. “So Evans was angry with you for not cooperating with him. But why would he try and have you killed after all these years? Why would . . .” John watched as Sherlock’s eyes glazed over as if he were looking into a different dimension. “Oh . . . stupid,  _ stupid”  _ he scolded himself.

“What?”  

“Evans told me he was ‘revisiting a project from his past.’ This must be it. He obviously failed the first time. And now he’s going to try to destroy St. Bart’s again. Most likely with better supplies and connections than before.”

“But why would he need James dead in order to do that?”

“Sholto is presumably the only one he confided in the first time around. If he caught wind of this, he’d possibly stop him. In order to succeed, Sholto must be eliminated.”

James remained sitting and calmly and quietly as he had before, but as the color drained from his face, it revealed his true mental state. 

“Jesus,” John breathed.

“Luckily,” Sherlock continued, sounding just as shaken as them, “there’s a rather simple solution to this.”

“Which is?”

“I just have to convince Evans that you, Sholto, are an impossible man to trace, so the assassination isn’t impossible. If you can’t be killed, he can’t proceed.”

“That might buy some time, but it won’t stop him permanently,” James said. “But I suppose it’s the best we can do.”

They sat in the heavy silence for some time, digesting everything Sherlock had just uncovered for them.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” James finally said, fixing John with a pointed, questioning look. 

He considered taking the invitation and asking him the one question he’d really wanted an answer to. But he found that the question fizzled out before it was anything more than a mere thought bubble. The burning curiosity he’d felt up until their reunion had simmered out and died. He no longer cared or wanted to know. James had obviously put their relationship far behind him. It was probably high time that John did the same.

“Not that I can think of,” he said, scooting his teacup away from him in an obvious dismissal.

Sherlock suddenly whipped his phone out of his pocket, raising a single eyebrow at whatever he saw on the screen. “I’m afraid duty calls. We’d best be going.”

When he rose from the couch, John followed him back to the front door.

“Oh allow me.” James rushed ahead of them to lead the way. “Um, just so you both know, now that I know Evans wants me killed, it’s likely I’ll relocate again. So, er, don’t come back here looking for me.”

John knew the comment was directed at him; he pointedly did not acknowledge it or make eye contact as he zipped his jacket up.

“Good thinking,” Sherlock said, opening the door. “And just a heads up, the arms smugglers are still trying to kill you as well. Thanks for the tea.”

With that, Sherlock fled down the porch steps leaving John behind to stifle a laugh at James’ befuddled reaction.

“John, wait,” James said right as he reached for the door.

He stopped and faced him, noticing a light hint of desperation in his old friend’s eyes.

“Do you . . . do you mind me asking how you found me here?”

Whatever brief flicker of optimism he’d felt a moment ago fell and shattered to pieces. Something hardened in his chest. That was it. The final nail in the coffin.

“Don’t worry, you’ve covered your tracks well enough,” he said, feeling his face twitch into a scowl for a moment. “You don’t have to worry about anyone else finding you here. I don’t know of anyone besides myself who’d care to look, anyway.”

At this, James seemed puzzled. That last bit had slipped out before John could stop himself, but he didn’t regret it one bit. On the contrary, it felt almost cathartic to say it.

“What do you mean-”

“No, don’t start. That’s what fucking happens when you cut everyone who loves you out of your life. I would’ve done anything and everything for you, James, if you’d given me a chance. But you ran off like a coward and never came home. So you don’t get to complain now when no one gives a shit about you anymore or even remembers your name.”

Without waiting for a reaction or a response, John brushed past him through the doorway and joined Sherlock at the bottom of the porch. The only thing he wanted as he fell into step beside him was to get as far away from here as possible.

 

**********

 

As Sholto and Watson said their goodbyes, Sherlock turned his attention to the four missed calls from Irene and dialed her back.

“Sherlock, what the  _ hell _ is wrong with you,” greeted a familiar voice after one ring. “You can’t just up and leave like that without telling anyone. Do you have any idea how much hell Evans has put me through since he realized you were gone? Did you think about anyone besides yourself for even one second before you left?”

“Irene-”

“Are you okay? Where did you go? Do you need me to come get you? I’m coming to get you. Tell me where you are.”

“I’m fine. Tell Evans not to worry because I’m on my way back.”

He heard an exasperated sigh from the other end of the line. “Sherlock . . . I don’t think you should come back.”

He blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Evans is furious with you for running off. Absolutely livid. He knows how careless you can be.”

“But I didn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter that nothing bad happened. You took a huge risk by running away and endangered all of us. I don’t think that you should come back here. I’m – I’m worried that he’ll . . . that he might hurt you if you return.”

He could hear the pain in Irene’s voice. It hurt her deeply to refuse him his only place of shelter. He wondered if he should tell her what he learned from Sholto. Or an even easier solution, he could just tell Evans that they’d never really struck a deal with the hitmen. However, confessing could put Irene in danger, since Evans would then know that she helped him lie. He couldn’t do that to her.  

That left him stranded and essentially homeless.

“Sherlock?” Irene asked after he’d been silent for some time. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He swallowed the forming lump in his throat. “I understand.”

“Do you need me to come pick you up?”

“No.”

There was a long silence on the other end. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

He didn’t need to respond. The call ended and he put his phone back in his pocket.

Homeless. He hadn’t been homeless since he’d first met Evans. Because of him, he’d had a guaranteed place to sleep every night for several years.

The sound of hurried footsteps disturbed his thoughts. He turned around to see Watson storming down the steps, leaving a baffled Sholto staring after him on the porch. With a silent and stewing Watson by his side, he began his journey out of the valley. Once they were on the other side of the hill, Sherlock stopped him.

“Watson, there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

“I didn’t actually tell my boss that Sholto was impossible to find. In essence, I told him the deal with you was practically in motion. So it’s highly likely he’s proceeded with his plans.”

“You didn’t . . .  _ what?! _ Then why would you say-”

“I didn’t want Sholto getting more involved than he needed to. It’s likely that would’ve result in him getting killed. This way he remains safe. Isn’t that what you’d want?”

“I . . . well, what the hell are you going to do now? Your boss is basically planning a terrorist attack that could result in thousands of deaths.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, realizing he hadn’t thought this far ahead of the game. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Well you better fucking figure it out, because-”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Shh.”

There was a flicker of movement in the distance, by one of the trees. Sherlock brushed past John and followed the disturbance.

“What’re you-”

“Hush.”

Falling from a nearby tree was a shadow that looked just a tad too unnatural. He approached cautiously until he could confirm that no one was behind it. However, the leaves at the base of the trunk were more flattened and crushed than they should’ve been, he noticed. A heavy pressure had been atop them for some time.

“What is it?” Watson called from back where they had been standing together.

“Someone was here,” he replied, slowly stalking back to their spot. He and Watson carefully scanned the hillside. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Just trees, shrubs, and grass as far as their eyes could see.

He turned in a slow circle, looking up and all around him. All of a sudden, Watson’s eyes widened at something that was right behind him.

“Sherlock, look out!” he yelled, before diving forward and tackling him to the ground.

Sherlock fell hard on his wrist and winced at the painful snap he felt. But the gunshot that rang out a moment later pushed whatever injury he may have sustained out of his mind. He covered his head with his hands, his ears still sore and ringing from the shot.

When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see Watson standing tall above him with his arm outstretched, a smoking gun in his hand. The soft wind blew through the blonde strands of his hair, making the fringe dance lightly across his forehead. His mouth was set in a hard line of determination, and his hardened, blue eyes were focused on something far beyond of them. 

Sherlock gazed up at him, awestruck and lost for words. All of a sudden, Watson took off running towards whatever he’d just shot at, and Sherlock followed in pursuit. They soon approached a body on the ground with a fresh bullet through its chest.

There was something vaguely familiar about the man’s face. Sherlock couldn’t place it until he realized it was the arms dealer from the night he met Watson.

“He followed one of us here,” Sherlock said, as they stared down at the bleeding body. The sweltering pain in his wrist made a sudden return. He cradled it gently, but disguised the action as crossing his arms.

“How do you know?”

“He probably knew one of us would go searching, and he followed. But his packing suggests he’s been travelling alone. So there’s no one else here, don’t worry.”

“Wasn’t worried. Just . . . he tried to shoot you. I saw the red light behind you.”

“And you make an accurate shot based only on a distant light?”

Watson shrugged modestly and put his hands in his pockets, keeping his eyes fixed on the corpse in front of them.

“Impressive,” Sherlock said.

Watson looked at him with a light sparkle in his eyes, a small smile playing  at the corner of his lips. Sherlock was fully grasping for the first time that Watson had just killed a man for him. Shot him in cold blood without hesitation. All because he was in danger. He couldn’t think of a single other person in his life who would’ve done that, especially no one he’d only known for a mere few days. To his knowledge, no one had ever cared that much for him, or thought his life worthy of being saved. 

“Er, look,” Watson said, looking away almost shyly. “We should . . . you know, before people come investigating the gunshot.”

“Yes. That would be wise.”

***

Sherlock and Watson made their back way to the train station at which they’d both arrived.

Once on the train, Sherlock found a seat four rows in front of him, and during the entire three and a half hour ride, he only looked back twice. The first time, he found that Watson was already watching him. But the moment their eyes met, he hurriedly turned away as though was never looking in the first place. The second time, his head was leaning against the window, his eyes closed peacefully.

Sherlock pushed his sleeve up to examine his wrist, which was still swollen, throbbing, and hot to the touch.

It was only then that he noticed the tear in his shirt. He unzipped his jacket fully to get a better view and saw an ugly red line slashed through the skin of his chest. It wasn’t a deep cut, just a scratch. He must have fallen on a sharp stick or something when Watson tackled him. Still, he was surprised that he hadn’t noticed it until now. Though now that he  _ had  _ noticed, his whole chest instantly stung with pulsating pain. Between the cut and his swollen wrist, it made for a incredibly uncomfortable ride home.

***

By the time they arrived back to London, night had fallen. Sherlock lifted his jacket above his head to protect himself from the icy rain pouring over the platform. One side of it dropped against his head, as it was too painful to hold it up with his injured wrist. 

As Watson lingered uncomfortably behind him, Sherlock wondered if they would say goodbye to one another or simply part ways. Though there was no reason for them to exchange parting words, he realized, reprimanding himself for such a foolish thought. They didn’t know each other. They simply met for professional reasons and happened to cross paths again while on a similar journey.

Just as he was about to set off in the opposite direction, Watson spoke up.

“Hey, um. Sorry you had to hear all that. Back at the house,” he called over the heavy downpour of rain. “Between me and James.”

“No need to apologize,” Sherlock called back.

Watson nodded silently as rain streamed down his face and darkened his blonde hair. “Are you alright?” he asked, nodding at his chest.

Sherlock realized that with his jacket doubling as an umbrella, his scratch was clearly visible through the tear in his shirt.

“It’s nothing.”

“And your wrist. Why are you holding it like that? I hurt you when I knocked you down, didn’t I?”

“Superficial.”

“I think you better get that checked out.” Droplets gathered on the tips of Watson’s eyelashes, falling only when he blinked them away. “Come back to my place with me. Let me take a look at it.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s the least I can do after you noticed the smuggler had followed us. He could’ve killed James.” Watson glanced down at his wrist again and shot him a sympathetic grin. “Come on.”

With that, he sidled up beside Sherlock, made himself at home underneath the cover of his jacket, and led him home.

***

Watson’s flat could only be described as small and cramped. The grey drabness of it was only accentuated by the dreary rain outside, and yet it still had a homey feel to it that Sherlock couldn’t quite explain.

He was perched atop a desk in the dimly lit room with Watson standing between his knees, tenderly wrapping his wrist.

“It’s not broken, just a sprain,” Watson muttered, almost to himself.

His eyes were narrowed and focused on the task in front of him. Sherlock noticed how the creases in his forehead deepened the harder he concentrated. 

“Must’ve popped when I landed on it in the grass.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”  

The gauze was wrapped in such crisp, even lines, each layer perfectly spaced from the one under it.

“You’re very good at that.”

“Well, I’ve got three years of medical school under my belt.”

“But you stopped because of your sister,” Sherlock said, remembering what he’d heard back at Sholto’s house.

“Yeah,” Watson admitted quietly.

“What happened?”

“Can’t you  _ deduce  _ it?” he asked, his eyes glittering with mirth. 

The delicate, yellow glow of the desk lamp illuminated every bit of him, drawing sharp shadows under his jawline that Sherlock couldn’t help but trace over with his eyes as he watched him. His attention to detail was unlike anything he’d seen before. If he could, he would’ve sat there on John’s desk all day to watch him treat injuries, just to observe, just to watch his little tongue poke out and his eyebrows draw together in focus.

“You had to support her, didn’t you,” he concluded. “So you gave up your dream.”

Watson paused in his work. It was just the slightest hesitation, but Sherlock could tell he didn’t want to discuss the matter any further, so he dropped it. 

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Well, it’s a shame. You would’ve been a good doctor.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Dr. Watson. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Watson’s eyes snapped up to him and noticeably softened, as did the creases in his forehead. When he looked back down to continue working, a gentle smile stretched his lips ever so slightly.

“John,” he said, his voice full of a certain warmth and intimacy that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“John.” Sherlock repeated it over a few times in his head. “How disappointingly common.”

John’s chuckle was so quiet, but it still managed to fill the room. Sherlock knew that Watson – that  _ John _ already knew his first name. He’d introduced himself to James in front of him. Plus, it was “Sherlock” he had yelled when warning him about the smuggler.

“Well, that’s it,” John said, patting his wrist. “Just keep it rested. Ice it if you can. It should heal fine.”

He examined his new wrap while John remained standing between his knees.

“You might want to let me look at that as well,” he said, glancing down to his chest.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Don’t want it to get infected though, do you?”

John was already getting supplies out of his first aid kit, so Sherlock didn’t protest further. As he poured a clear liquid onto a cloth, he nodded to his torn shirt.

“It would help if you . . .”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, tugging his shirt over his head and setting it aside on the desk.

“Perfect,” John drawled lowly, eyeing his chest. “Might sting a little.” Sherlock hissed and flinched backward at the initial touch of the cloth. 

“Just hold still for me,” John said, and he placed the fingertips of his other hand on one side of his chest to steady him. The touch nearly shocked Sherlock into stillness. He looked down at the fingers on his skin and then back to John, who had returned to his intense focus, dabbing gently along the jagged line and was probably unaware of his lingering hand.

John leaned in close so close that the tip of his nose tickled Sherlock’s skin as he worked his way down. The warmth of his breath raised goosebumps that he prayed would go unnoticed. 

It was only when he bent to reach the lower parts of the scratch that Sherlock noticed his neckline falling forward slightly, revealing golden tan collarbones and a hint of a shadowed chest. The sight made Sherlock’s own body flush with heat as he suddenly became hyper aware of his own naked torso. He tried to look elsewhere, but couldn’t help that the direction of the lighting kept forcefully dragging his gaze back to John’s hanging neckline and everything that laid under it.

“So what are you going to do now?” John asked, pulling his hand away and uncapping a tube of antibiotic ointment. The sudden absence of fingertips on Sherlock’s chest left his skin burning, as though the touch had left five little imprints. “About this guy Evans.”

“I’m going to try and stop him. I’m the only one who can, aren’t I? Can’t exactly go to the police with the kind of record I have and nothing to back up my word.”

“I wish there was some way I could help.” John squeezed a generous amount of gel onto two fingers and lathered them up. “Alright, this will feel a little cold, but hopefully it’ll be soothing.”

This time, John rested his hand on the bare skin of Sherlock’s waist to steady him as he began massaging the ointment into the scratch. Sherlock gave a slight intake of breath at the unexpected touch. Luckily, he was able to cover it with a pleasured sigh as the ointment kicked in. John was right; the relief was instant and incredibly relieving. The coolness of the gel contrasted with the warmth of John’s comforting hand, as well as the fresh burst of goosebumps on his waist that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

John continued to rub small circles into his scratch with his two fingers, moving much slower than was probably necessary. But Sherlock didn’t mind; the ointment felt amazing. 

Sherlock studied his face as he worked. His eyes weren’t concentrated like they were when he was cleaning the scratch; they were relaxed, almost dazed. A few times, he even caught his line of sight straying to either side of the scratch where his nipples lay, or down the line of his stomach where he knew he had a set of nicely defined abs.

John’s eyes trailing all over his torso left him feeling strangely self-conscious. He resisted curling in on himself, wondering what John was thinking when he looked at him.

He looked down to his waist, where the radiating heat from John’s hand seemed to be burning into his skin. What was strange was the slight twitching he noticed in his hand, how it was fidgeting nearly unnoticeably as though John was battling with himself over whether to keep it there or remove it. 

Curious, Sherlock looked back up and caught him peeking down to his abs for perhaps the second or third time. But this time, John glanced up, caught his eye, and immediately ducked his head, his face turning scarlet knowing he’d been caught. He removed his hand from his waist, almost as an apology, and continued with the ointment as though nothing had happened, just like on the train.

When he finished, John tore off a bandage strip and pressed it onto his chest, perfectly covering the scratch. He gave a slow rub up and down the length of it to ensure it would remain secure, and finished with a final pat.

After the first aid kit was packed up, John leaned in and rested his hands on the edge of the desk, caging in Sherlock’s legs. Looking directly at him, he raised his eyebrows in question as though Sherlock was the one who was supposed to determine the next course of action.

He was standing so close, wedged between his thighs. Sherlock almost felt trapped, with the hands on either side of his legs. He could feel John’s breath soft against his throat, could see every pore in his face as the silence stretched on. When John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, Sherlock let his eyes linger there, tracing the thin shape of them, fascinated at how small yet expressive they were. 

When he looked back up, he flushed with embarrassment at the knowing amusement in John’s eyes, which were still fixed directly on him as he waited silently. But Sherlock didn’t speak. He only watched. Watched as John momentarily dropped his gaze to the freckles on his neck before settling back on his eyes, eyebrows still raised in almost a challenge.

Sherlock stared into one ocean blue eye, and then the other, wondering what he was supposed to do, what John was waiting for.

“Thank you,” he finally said, breaking the delicate silence. 

Perhaps he’d imagined it, but a flicker of disappointment seemed to pass over John’s face, as if he was hoping he’d say or do something else. But without breaking eye contact, he handed him his shirt back and stepped away, allowing him to slip off the desk and quickly dress himself.

John showed him to the door, but Sherlock stopped a moment before letting himself out. 

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked, zipping himself up. “About helping?”

"Why do you ask?” 

Sherlock fiddled with his collar, debating whether to say what was next on his mind. He knew it was a terrible idea. Regardless of the day they’d just shared together, John was still practically a stranger. They didn’t know each other. How could he trust him?

“You know the Japanese restaurant that went out of business some years ago?” he found himself saying before he could regain control of his tongue.

“Yeah. The one that used to be in that vacant building?”

The offer tumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth as naturally as stating his own name. “If you ever want to find me, go down the alleyway behind it, follow it all the way to the end. Turn around the left corner and you’ll see a small clearing. That’s where I’ll be.”

John stared at him in total disbelief. His mouth parted, but no words came out. 

Mentally kicking himself for what a stupid thing he’d just done, Sherlock nodded at him and left without another word.

He’d never told anyone about that spot before. Not Evans, not Irene, not even Janine. It’s where he had lived when he first ran away from his family, and it’s where he would return now as he once again found himself without a place to call home.

 

**********

 

John knocked three times on Mary’s door. Sherlock had only left his flat a short while ago, but his visit had left his head spinning in more ways than one. Once he’d cooled down with a nice, cold glass of water, he spent some time pondered his parting offer. 

It left him burning with an urgent need to decide where his loyalties lay and how he wanted to proceed with his life. Deciding what to do about his job would be a good place to start.

The door opened to reveal a surprised Mary in her pajamas and night robe.

“John,” she greeted, blinking away the tiredness in her eyes. “You’re back early. Come in.”

He shook the rain out of his hair, wiped his muddy feet off on her mat, and stepped inside.

“Everything alright?” she asked, probably detecting the darkness in his mood. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come back to my room and we’ll talk later?”

With a sly smile, she took his hand and tried to tug him towards her bedroom, but he kept his feet planted firmly to the ground. Catching on that he wasn’t there for that kind of visit, she dropped it and crossed her arms.

“Did you complete the job?” she asked, a bit more sternly.

Silence.

“John. Wake up. Operation Stamford. Did you kill your-”

“What’s really going on here, Mary?” he asked. Once the floodgates were open, he couldn’t stop. “Cause if I remember correctly, when you first hired me here, you said that your job was to get terrible people off the streets. Deliver justice when the actual justice system failed. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“John-”

“Then explain to me why we’re getting assigned targets who’ve never wronged anyone. Not in a way that would justify killing them, at least. Explain to me why the only thing you seem to care about how much money you’ll pocket from each death.”

Mary’s face darkened with each word that left his mouth. The playful twinkle in her eye vanished and was replaced with a hardened, stone cold glare.

“Alright. It’s true,” she said, casually shrugging one shoulder. “I work for the highest bidder. Are you happy?” 

John let out a dark laugh. “No, I’m really not. I’m quite pissed off actually.” He felt himself smile, but it wasn’t a kind smile. No, this was a smile that only appeared when he felt ready to kill. “Just tell me why you lied. That’s all I want to know.”

Mary’s voice remained infuriatingly calm and stoic. “Because when I first met you, I could tell you were a good man.”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me.” 

“I could tell you were a good man,” she continued over him, “and I knew you’d never stick around if you knew the truth about what I do. But I also knew I wanted you on my team. I’d been observing you for a while. I found your skillset valuable. I needed you to stay. That’s all.”

She took a step towards him.

“John, I’m not going to apologize for telling you what you needed to hear,” she said while rubbing her temple like she did when she had migraines. “Because of me, you’re off the streets now and making decent money. In return, I get a valuable addition to my team – an intelligent, self-sufficient man who knows how to negotiate and is a crack shot. This works for both of us.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “So can we just move on from this?” The way she was speaking as though John was the one being unreasonable one made his blood boil. “Now you know the truth, and you also know how much you need me. And I need you. So why don’t you just come back to my room, and we’ll talk more in the morning, okay?”

John all but yanked his arm out of her grasp, and he simply glowered at her, channeling all his fury into his eyes. The fury built up from four years of hard work, secrecy, and being lied to day after day. When words failed him, he shook his head and turned to walk back out the door.

A tight grip on his shirt stopped him.

“I’d think twice about what you’re about to do, John,” she said. Whereas a moment ago, her voice was soft and soothing, now it was cold and firm. “I know where you live. I’m familiar with your habits. Remember what it is that I do here.”

John knew exactly what she was implying. And to be honest, he didn’t blame her. She couldn’t afford to have people walking around knowing all the inner secrets of her operation. He could easily get them all arrested if he wanted to.

“I expect you to show up here for tomorrow morning’s meeting. You know what I’ll assume if you don’t. Think very carefully about your decision.”

Without looking back at her, John opened the door and let himself out.

***

John kept his hands stuffed in his pockets to protect them from the cold. The earliest threads of light were peeking out from the horizon. The sky was rapidly lightening to a faint, royal blue that only came with first moments of dawn.

It had been one hell of a night for him. He’d barely slept on the train ride home. Since then, he’s been awake patching up wounds, confronting Mary, and then returning home to pack very few of his belongings into a backpack.

From there he started on a brisk walk and didn’t stop until he reached the dark, vacant building that had once been a poorly run Japanese restaurant. He ducked around the corner into a narrow alleyway, followed it to the very end, and turned left to find his way blocked by two white sheets hanging like curtains from a clothing line. With a steadying breath, he parted the sheets, and ducked under them.  

He found himself in a spacious little opening, walled off perfectly by the surrounding brick walls. One would never think to come all the way back here unless they were given specific instructions, as he had. The area was about the size of a small bedroom. A double mattress lay on the gravel ground, taking up about half the floor space. Sitting on top of it was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

“Watson,” he greeted, looking up at him in combined surprise and confusion. “What’re you – I wasn’t expecting-”

“I told you to call me ‘John,’ didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“And you told me I could find you here, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“So here I am.”

There was something guarded about Sherlock’s face, like he was trying to stop himself from building up his hopes up as he asked his next question.

“What is it you need?”

John looked around at Sherlock’s living conditions, knowing they could very easily become his own if he went through with this. He noted the boxes along the walls, the balcony above them serving as the only roof, thought of the cold nights he must spend here, the rain . . .

He looked back to Sherlock and set his backpack down, his decision finalized.

“I want to help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that turned out way longer than I expected lol. I hope you enjoyed it anyway. 
> 
> This was pretty much the last "set up" chapter. I know there's a lot of being thrown at you guys here, and I hope it's making sense plot-wise, but now that everything's laid out we can get into the Johnlocky stuff! Thanks for sticking with it through all the nitty gritty plot set up :) 
> 
> Also, now that school has started up again, my updates might get a bit slower. I apologize ahead of time. 
> 
> K that's all! Thanks so much for reading, I hope you all are enjoying it, and please leave a comment if you can!! <3


	4. A New Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains drug use and vague references to past sexual assault.

“You want to help me stop an arsonist.”

“Well. A terrorist attack. But yes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You realize this won’t be an overnight job. It could take weeks. Possibly months.”

“I know.”

“It won’t be easy. Especially for you, getting involved in something you know very little about.”

“Won’t be a problem.”

Sherlock stroked down his chin as he evaluated John. It didn’t sound like such a terrible idea. With his medical knowledge, familiarity with operating off the grid, and combat skills, he would indeed make a valuable addition to his mission.

“Could be dangerous,” he said, in one last attempt to test his willingness.

To his surprise, a glint of pleasure flickered in John’s eye, and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “That’s why I’m here,” he said.

Sherlock’s lips stretched into an eager smile. “Then welcome aboard, John Watson.”

John returned his smile and stepped further into the clearing, looking around. All of a sudden, Sherlock became strangely self-conscious about his living space, knowing John was used to having a proper roof over his head.

“So what’s your plan?” John asked.

“Don’t have one.”

“You don’t . . . then how exactly do you plan on-”

“I’ve known about this whole thing for exactly as long as you have, alright? Forgive me for not hashing out a full game plan in a matter of a few sleep-deprived hours.”

John nodded in understanding, clenching and unclenching his fist. He then scooped his backpack off the ground and turned towards the hanging sheets.

“Alright then. I guess I’ll just give you some time and uh . . .”

“Wait!” Sherlock blurted before he could stop himself. “You could um . . . you could stay. Here I mean. If you need to.”

“What do you mean ‘if I need to?’”

“You’ve got an overnight bag with you, and I assume other valuables as well. When you first got here you looked around as though appraising my living space, no doubt imaging if you could put up with such conditions yourself, which only tells me that you have no place to return to tonight. Which could only mean that you’re currently setting off to look for your own little street corner to make a home out of.”

John looked at him with that same expression he always made when Sherlock made his deductions. Like he was torn between being impressed and trying to decipher how on earth he’d put those pieces together.

“So what I’m trying to say,” Sherlock continued, “is that if you need somewhere to sleep tonight. Or for a while. You’re welcome here.”

John’s eyes twinkled at him in appreciation, but were soon clouded with confusion as he caught onto the most glaring problem. Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at how insignificant a factor John chose to fixate on.

“There’s, um, only one mattress.”

“Which belongs to me. Look, John in a city like this, it’ll be extremely difficult for you to find a corner as isolated and private as this one. No one ever comes back here. It’s quiet. We’ve got shelter over our heads. But if you want to go sleep under some filthy bridge and deal with everyone’s pitying stares as they pass you by, be my guest.”

John looked between him and the sheets separating them from the cold, restless streets of London and put his hands up in surrender. “Guess I’m staying then.”

“Fantastic. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to my mind palace.”

John tried (and pathetically failed) to cover his laugh with a cough. “Your what?”

“My. Mind. Palace. Where I go to think. Just be quiet and keep yourself busy.”

“Right. Mind then if I . . .?”

With a flip of his uninjured wrist, permission was given for John to do whatever he liked as Sherlock reclined back onto the mattress and closed his eyes.

The sound of John unzipping his jacket and tugging his shirt off filled his ears, distracting him from immersion. Then came a heavy grunt and the resounding vibrations of struck metal. Curious, Sherlock peeked to see John hanging from the metal bar stretching between two of the brick walls, the one he sometimes used to hang his wet clothes.

John readjusted his grip and pulled himself up until his chin was above the bar. His bare back was facing Sherlock, granting him a full view of the sculpted muscles in his back and shoulders, rippling smoothly under his skin as he moved. His biceps were like rounded mounds, stretching and compressing each time he lowered down and pulled himself back up.

But what really drew Sherlock’s attention was the missing chunk of skin in his left shoulder, and the pale, crinkled scar that filled its place. It was a bullet wound, obviously. One could guess, of course, how John had gotten it given his line of work, but it was impossible to say for sure.

Against his better judgement, Sherlock allowed his eyes to return to his back, tracing over every curve of his compact physique. His stomach twisted, feeling like he was doing something wrong, violating some sort of unspoken trust John had given him by removing his clothes and turning his back on him. And yet, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The sight made his face flush red and quickened the pulse in his neck. 

 

_ That’s enough,  _ Sherlock mentally scolded as unexpected heat traveled through his body. This had to stop now. With great effort, he forced his eyes back shut. It was time to start formulating a plan before John got fed up or bored with him and left. 

He settled back and tried to retreat into his mind. Except he couldn’t.

The sounds of John’s heavy breaths kept infiltrating his thoughts. He couldn’t focus. Not as each exhale became a grunt. Not as each grunt grew deeper and longer, bordering on groans as his arms tired out. The sounds only brought to him vivid images of what was going on right in front of him, how John must look with his skin flushed red, glistening with sweat, teeth bared, hair dripping.

It was too much.

“Could you not do that while I’m thinking,” Sherlock said.

“Why not?” came a strained reply.

“It’s distracting.”

“Distracting how? Your eyes are closed.”

“I can hear you.”

“Hear me what?”

“Breathing.”

A pause ensued, followed by the sound of feet dropping to the ground.

“So am I not supposed to breathe then?”

“Look,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes and sitting up. I under-” 

The sight before him left him utterly tongue-tied. What he’d imagined had in no way prepared him for the real sight of John standing in front of him, hands on his hips and feet spread in a commanding stance. Covering his entire torso was a light sheen of sweat, so subtle it wouldn’t have been noticeable were it not for the faint beams of light catching onto the little droplets. Sherlock quickly snapped his jaw shut, cleared his throat, and started over before his embarrassment furthered.

“I understand that you need to keep your arm moving or else your injured shoulder will stiffen up, but understand that I require absolute silence when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t even talk for days on end. If my habits bother you, you should probably find another place to camp.”

John stepped forward, pointing a stern finger in his direction. “Don’t talk about my shoulder.”

“Why not? You were obviously injured in some sort of gun fight. Perhaps similar to the stand-off we found ourselves in not too long ago. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Wrong. It’s from my med school days. There was an intruder in my flat. He tried to go after my sister and I stopped him.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but found that he’d been perplexed into silence. He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him that John had an entire life, an entire history before entering the network of organized crime. 

“What?” John asked. “Is that surprising to you? That I was hurt doing something selfless and not illegal?”

_ Not at all, _ Sherlock thought, surprising himself. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more perfectly it seemed to suit his character. This was a man who travelled hours ensure the safety of a man who didn’t give a damn about him, who killed for a near stranger, who dropped his life to join forces with him and save thousands of innocent lives.

Yet, he worked for an assassin. The job by nature required a willingness to facilitate the taking of lives, innocent or not. The stark contradiction, once noticed, made John Watson the most fascinating and deeply confusing man he’d ever encountered.

“Stop that,” John said.

“Stop what.”

“Stop staring at me like . . . I’m a puzzle, or . . . just stop.”

Sherlock wasn’t even aware he’d been staring at him in a particular way, but nevertheless he relaxed his face.

“I guess that big brain of yours can’t deduce  _ everything _ at a single glance. Don’t presume to know everything about me,” John said, before turning around and jumping back up to the metal bar.

_ No, _ Sherlock thought.  _ I would never dare to again. _

John resumed his pull-ups, leaving his words to echo repeatedly in Sherlock’s ears.

_ I guess that big brain of yours can’t deduce everything. _

The sentence coiled around his throat like a snake. His insides turned to ice, and under his skin he detected the oncoming return of the shakes and shivers he knew all too well.

 

_ “I can’t believe you,” Sherlock said, the moment Janine walked through the door. _

_ “What?” she laughed. _

_ “You got your dealer to give you extra tablets without paying full price. I assume by ‘scrubbing his floors,’ going by the state of your knees. God, Janine. I thought better of you.” _

_ He knew it was a tasteless joke, knowing the sort of things Evans had her do to fulfill her “payments” to him. But Janine, bless her, only burst into another fit of bubbly laughter. _

_ “On the contrary, he had me clean the cupboard under his sink, not ‘scrub his floors.’ I could smell the mold as soon as I stepped into his place. He didn’t want to hire someone to clean it out so I offered to do it.” _

_ “You’re serious.” _

_ “I am. I guess that big brain of yours can’t deduce everything, can it?” she said, adding an affectionate ruffle of his hair for good measure. _

 

“You know what?” Sherlock said, rolling off the mattress and grabbing his jacket. “The place is yours. Crash wherever you want if you’re tired. Just don’t take my mattress.”

“Where are you going?” John asked, grunting through his next pullup.

“Out.”

Thankful that John’s back was turned, he dug into the bottom of one of his boxes, pulled out the needle he knew would still be stashed there, and was on his way.

***

The high kicked in within seconds of injection, as it always did. The euphoria warmed his blood, its heat swimming through his veins and washing out every bit of pain that lingered inside him. With a cathartic exhale, every burden and trial he’d ever had was released. All of it. Gone. 

 

God, he felt so light. He was under a bridge again. A different one this time. Outside, he knew it was cold and damp. But he didn’t feel it. No, he was as warm and safe as he’d ever been in his life. His blood thrummed with pleasure, his head buzzed with pure, white bliss.

He leaned back against the cement, curling his arms around himself as if that would keep the soothing warmth there forever. His head lolled on his shoulder and dropped to the side. It was too heavy to hold up. No matter. Nothing mattered as long as he stayed like this.

But of course, it never stayed. Not the dizzying ecstasy, not the warmth. It seeped out of him as though sucked out by the darkness under the bridge. And suddenly, Sherlock was shivering from the bite of the bitter cold air. He curled in on himself again, though this time, it was to fight off the violent shivers tearing through him.

He wanted Irene. He wanted her to find him and taken him back to the house, just like she used to, just like she did after Janine . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut to contain the moisture gathering there. He knew John hadn’t meant anything by his comment. How could he have known what it would do to him? How it would take him back to a time when his dark days were brightened by Janine’s laughter.

But she wasn’t happy. She was never happy. He knew that.

Sherlock’s stomach ached terribly remembering how he’d hear her shaking breaths at night, how he’d sometimes peek into her room and see her shuddering figure curled up tightly inside her blankets. How he’d consider going in to console her, but never did. All he ever did was stand outside, listening like a coward.

What Evans did to her had its effects – as it would for anyone. And as much as she tried to conceal her trauma during the day with merry laughter and teasing jokes, she couldn’t hide it all the time. Not at night, when he heard the soft sniffles coming from her room. But she never talked about it. No. She didn’t want to acknowledge what he did to her. She wanted to be strong. And she was. It took heaping amounts of strength and resilience to still see good in the world after being treated how she was. No matter what Evans did, he could never crush her spirit. Never her heart, and never her soul.

And Sherlock took advantage of it. He thought Janine, all smiles and brightness during the day, could handle whatever was dealt to her. So he did nothing.

What happened to her was his fault. And no amount of heroin would let him forget it.

***

Judging by the sky, it was around 6 or 7 in the morning when Sherlock packed up his needle and set off for home. People would be waking up right now, heading to work, starting their day. But he was exhausted. He’d spent most of yesterday trekking around St. Asaph, then he’d travelled home, allowed John to treat his injuries, and moved back into his alley. So it had been nearly 24 hours since he’d slept. And John was probably in the same boat.

Sherlock arrived back at his alley, pulled the sheets back, and stepped into his little nook. What he saw made him halt in his tracks.

John was curled up on his mattress, his coat thrown carelessly over his body as a blanket. Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh as he removed his own jacket. All the way home, he’d been looking forward to the soft, plushy comfort of his mattress. He especially needed it after crashing down from a high like that. And he’d specifically told John to sleep anywhere  _ except _ there, had he not?

He stood over John, deciding how best to wake him and make him move. It was then that he noticed the bits of gravel and dirt smudged onto the knees of his trousers. John had tried sleeping on the ground then. He was also loosely holding his left arm, as though he’d fallen asleep clutching his shoulder. The injured one, Sherlock remembered. So laying on the ground must have hurt his shoulder too much.

Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned down at the sleeping man. Fine. He’d let him win the pity points this time. But  _ only  _ this time. He was too tired to care anyway.

He dragged his exhausted feet to one of his crates and pulled out the only blanket he owned. He gathered it together and practically chucked it at John in an act of reluctant generosity. In his sleep, John clutched it tighter to his body, clinging to the warmth it provided. Sherlock fought off an endearing grin watching him unconsciously snuggle into the softness.

With a dreary sigh, he lowered himself into the corner of two brick walls, leaned against the side, and closed his eyes.  

***

Sherlock woke up some hours later when the sun was high enough to burn directly onto his eyelids. It must have been about noon, he thought, shielding his eyes from the light. So not an ideal amount of sleep, but it was better than nothing. He sat up and stretched, cracking his back and twisting his neck to ease the ache from sleeping against the wall. He would  _ never _ be doing that again.

After popping his neck one more time, he looked over to see if John was still asleep. However, instead of finding a curled up form, he found only an empty mattress with a discarded blanket bunched at the foot. A quick glance around the nook told him his backpack was gone too.

It surprised Sherlock how disappointed he felt. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hard on him earlier. Or perhaps this was John’s plan all along; to use him for temporary shelter, and then take off as soon as possible.

He knew he should’ve felt relieved. He wouldn’t have to share his supplies with anyone, he’d get his mattress back, his peace and quiet. And he didn’t need John to help him. He had enough brain power on his own, right?

But he didn’t feel any of that, no matter what he told himself. He only felt John’s absence.

He sighed as he folded up the blanket, ignoring how much colder and emptier his nook felt now that he was alone again. It didn’t matter. He’d been alone most of his life, hadn’t he? He didn’t need John.

It was then that he heard footsteps crunching the gravel down the alley, getting closer and closer until they were right outside the hanging sheets. One of them was pulled back, and John ducked under as comfortably as if he were entering his own home. Sherlock fought to contain the swarm of happiness and relief bubbling up inside him at the sight of the man. 

When John caught his eye, he smiled and held up the leather-bound book in his hand as though that would explain everything.

“Ran out to buy this. Thought we should start exchanging info and keeping track of everything we learn in here.”

Sherlock could only stare at him in bewilderment as John settled cross-legged on the ground and opened the book to the first page.

“What?” John asked, when he looked back up.

“You meant it. You want to help?”

“’Course,” he said, clicking his pen and preparing to write. “So, I guess. We should maybe start with, um, everything you know about your boss? This Evans guy.”

“Afraid I don’t know much about him. Why do you think I travelled all the way to St. Asaph on the off-chance I might get a scrap of information from your friend.”

John was seriously going to need to work on his deductive skills if this was going to work out.

“Okay then. How about . . . we start with you then?”

“Me?”

“How did you first get involved with him?”

Sherlock didn’t talk about his personal history with anyone. Not even Irene or Janine knew much about who he was before he ran away. But the sight of John sitting on the floor, pen poised, staring up at him like an eager child waiting to take notes – it was amusing. And almost, in a way, slightly endearing.

He conceded defeat and sat on the ground in front of John.

“Alright. Let’s see,” he said, tapping his chin. “I ran away from my family some years ago. Well, didn’t run away, per se, since I wasn’t living with them. But I escaped them. Told them I was going to, er, somewhere new, but I ran off instead.”

_ Rehab _ , his mind filled in.  _ You told them you were going to rehab and instead you cut them off and disappeared. _

“I spent about two years on the streets. Here, in fact. I lived here, alone, nearly starving. Evans discovered me one day when I was out and took me in. He promised me food, shelter, and um . . .”

_ Drugs. _

“And money. All I had to do was help him with his work, do his odd jobs, operate under the radar. Which was easy for me, you know. I’d been escaping all my family’s attempts to find me for two years at that point.”

“What sort of things did you have to do?” John asked once his pen had caught up. It was funny almost, watching him copy everything down as though every detail were of the utmost importance. It was sort of like having a biographer.

“A number of different things. Evans was a con artist of sorts. He’d plan these elaborate scams, make as much money off them as possible, and then shut it down before he could get caught. He had it down to an exact science. But he also did other things. Personal side projects to make more money. He didn’t tell us much aside from what we had to know.”

“Us? Who else was a part of this?”

“Evans owns a house that he uses to conduct business. Those of us who had nowhere else to go were allowed to crash there. There’s Irene, the other half of the brain power on our team. Paired together, we could do nearly anything he needed.”

“And she lived there in the house with you?” John asked.

“Yes. In the room next door to me.”

The corner of John’s jaw twitched from how tightly he clamped it shut. “Were you guys close?” he asked.

“Somewhat.”

John nodded stiffly. “Who else lived there?”

“It was Evans, myself, Irene, and um. Janine. My good friend. She’s the one I was close to.”

“Could we trust her? For our purposes, I mean.”

“She’s . . . dead.”

John’s eyes snapped back up again. But before he could ask, or apologize, or say something equally as stupid and unnecessary, Sherlock rushed on.

“Anyway. Over the years, I noticed myself becoming so dependent on Evans and what provided for me.”

_ Heroin and cocaine. _

“I didn’t like being so deep under someone’s thumb. I felt trapped.”

_ And you could never forgive him for what he did. _

“So I started looking for ways to leave. That’s how I ended up at St. Asaph, but the boss man didn’t like that I’d run off, so I can’t return there now.”

John nodded thoughtfully. When it looked like he was going to ask some follow up questions, Sherlock intervened.

“What about you?”

“Sorry, me?”

“How did you end up working for an assassin?”

“Oh, I’m not-”

“Come on. If I had to share, so do you. Surely the tale of how someone who grew up in a middle-class, standard nuclear family on the southern coast of England ended up in organized crime would be an interesting one. You clearly grew up accustomed to a  comfortable lifestyle, yet you couldn’t afford to support yourself through medical school while taking care of your sister. An alcoholic, most likely. So you had to choose one over the other. You chose your sister, as anyone raised with strong morals and family values would. Which begs the question, how did you end up here?”

John’s hand was poised on his chin, frozen mid-stroke as he stared at him. “That was amazing.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, prepared to defend himself, but stopped short when John’s words sank in. “You think so?”

“Of course it was. It was quite extraordinary. How did you know where I grew up?”

“Accent.”

“Oh come on, surely it’s not that easy to pin down.”

“You underestimate me.”

“And my sister?”

“You grew up in a well-off, most likely religious family, but your parents were clearly unwilling to support her through whatever she was going through. So the obligation fell on you. Therefore, the reason for her dependency must’ve been something they disapproved of. Not drugs, because if your family had a history of drug use, it’s extremely likely you would’ve fallen into the same trap once you entered this lifestyle. Yet you’ve shown no signs of any current or previous drug habits. That leaves alcoholism, which is addictive, financially draining, and something your parents would disapprove of.”

“Brilliant,” John breathed, shaking his head to himself in awe.

“You know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry, I’ll stop.”

“No it’s . . . fine.”

John lifted his eyes, looking at him from under his lashes while his head remained bowed in embarrassment. His eyes sparkled when Sherlock granted him a weak smile of gratitude.

“So,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and steepling his hands under his chin. “How did you, John Watson, end up here?”

“Well. As you know, I dropped out of med school to help Harry with her alcoholism. We barely had any money, the two of us. But after five years or so, she fell in love with this girl she met at a bar. I swear to you, they knew each other for like two weeks. And before I knew it, Harry dropped everything and moved to Scotland with her. Never really heard from her again.”

“Talk about a whirlwind of a romance.”

“Yeah. Well. Anyway. I struggled for a long time after that. I needed a job badly and couldn’t find one. I considered enlisting, just to escape it all. But I always had this sort of nagging feeling that one day, Harry might come home. So I stayed put. For her. But for the meantime, I still needed some way to make money and . . .”

“It just kind of happened,” Sherlock finished for him.

“Yeah,” John said, looking down in shame and picking at the gravel by his feet.

“You did all that for her,” Sherlock said, astounded at the lengths he’d gone to for Harry.

John shrugged one shoulder. “She’s my sister.”

“But she left you behind. After everything you gave up for her. You could’ve gone anywhere and made a life for yourself, but you stayed in London for her. Why?”

“That’s what you do for family,” he said. His voice was sincere but also contained a sort of underlying dejection at the lack of benefits his efforts had reaped.

The line stung like a slap. Suddenly, all Sherlock could think about was how he’d treated his own family. How they’d given him all the best resources for a successful life, and he’d thrown it all in their faces. How even then, they found him the best facility to get him clean, paid for everything, promised they’d welcome him home with open arms as soon as he was better. And he ran off. Never contacted them again. Because when it came down to it, he chose his habit over them. His need for independence and solitude over their love.

It hurt that he was the “Harry” in his situation, choosing his own wistful desires over his family, and his family was “John,” the caring loved ones making every sacrifice for him despite his behavior.

John had, yet again, proven himself to be the most complicated being he’d ever talked to. Wasn’t it him who - only yesterday - had lectured Sholto about the consequences of abandoning your loved ones? How cutting everyone off would ensure that they would eventually no longer care for you? Yet here he was, subjecting himself to a miserable life to make ends meet, all on the bet that his sister might reach out to him one day or return home.

“So. . . all that talk back at Sholto’s place. About cutting people out of your life.”

John’s head snapped up. “You heard that?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Oh. Well, it doesn’t apply to family. I’d drop everything right now and somehow find a way to reach Scotland if Harry so much as asked. Somehow, it doesn’t matter how many times she throws her life away, or throws me under the bus. I’d still do anything for her.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, as though being taught a lesson.

“So what about you? Got any siblings?”

Sherlock’s lips pursed. He swallowed thickly before giving a firm, “No.”

John stifled a laugh. “Okay. Well that was clearly a lie.”

“Not important. Irrelevant.”

John cocked an eyebrow at him, but thankfully dropped the subject when he realized Sherlock was not going to say anything further.

“You still haven’t answered my question, John. How did you end up  _ here?” _

“I quit my job with Mary Morstan.”

“Why?”

“Just wasn’t working out for me anymore,” he mumbled as he resumed flicking the pebbles around at his feet.

A lie. It was clearly a lie. Something had happened. But since John didn’t press him about his family, he decided he wouldn’t interrogate him.

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t,” slipped out of his mouth instead.

John’s head lifted again. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” he said, rising suddenly and dusting the gravel off his knees.

“I suppose,” John said, watching him curiously. “Haven’t eaten since dinner last night.”

“I know an excellent Italian place. The owner always treats me, so we won’t blow our cash.”

 

**********

 

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock and John were seated in the corner booth of a little eatery called Angelo’s.

John had to admit it was a little awkward, and a tad surreal. A mere few days ago they were facing off in an ill-lit garage, both ready to pull their guns on each other at a moment’s notice. Now, they were sitting down for a nice meal together.

And oh, look. A candle was being placed on the table. Wonderful.

“Sherlock,” the owner, Angelo, said fondly. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a date.”

“I’m not his date,” John said quickly.

Angelo ignored him and instead adjusted their candle so it sat nicely on the center of the table, and then left them with their menus.

John blew out an amused breath and looked out the window, tapping his foot contentedly against the floor. It was a nice little corner. Their booth was cozy, as was the restaurant. Not too fancy, not too drab.

John looked back to Sherlock, who seemed to be zoned out to another planet, staring somewhere right past his ear. He noticed some reddened skin under one of the curls on his temple. It was probably from sleeping against the brick wall all night. John felt a little bad about that. He’d give him his mattress back tonight; his shoulder was just going to have to deal with it.

He thought back to Sherlock promptly picking up and leaving the other night after their little spat. Where could he have gone? It didn’t seem like he’d taken anything with him besides his jacket. He couldn’t go back to the house he used to stay at . . . didn’t seem like the type to have many friends. . .

Sherlock’s fingers drummed absently on the table, as much as they could with the gauze immobilizing half his hand. John watched the long, artistic fingers tap against the dark wood, contrasting sharply with the paleness of his skin. Trailing upwards, he noticed the top two buttons of Sherlock’s shirt were unbuttoned, revealing pale clavicles and the deep, shadowed hollow in his throat. He licked his lips, panning up to the strong column of his neck, then the thickness of his lips, the natural contour of his cheekbones. Sherlock easily could’ve gone into modeling instead of crime when he was strapped for money, John found himself thinking. He had near perfectly proportioned features, was in great shape, not bad to look at, objectively. Any photographer would have snatched him up. Though he didn’t blame him for choosing to work for a con artist. It’d be a shame to let such a spectacular brain go to waste.

John was suddenly struck with the feeling that they were wasting time. He knew this partnership they’d found themselves in wouldn’t last forever, but while he was here, he wanted to know everything about Sherlock. His past, his present, what he wanted for his future. He was a fascinating man. It was highly unlikely John would meet someone like him again, so it was only natural to be curious. If only he’d get out of his head and let him in on all the inner workings of his brain. He wanted to hear it all. Every train of thought, every deduction. It was such a waste for them to sit here in utter silence.

John watched him for a few more seconds, a bit amused at how much he resembled a statue. Aside from his drumming fingers, he hadn’t moved a muscle. John found himself smiling a bit as he waited for just the tiniest twitch in his face, knowing it wouldn’t come. Knowing that Sherlock was that far lost in his head. Time to pull him back down to earth.

“So how do you know the owner?” he asked.

Sherlock’s fingers froze. His eyes snapped back into focus but remained fixed on some point behind John.  

“Some guys tried to frame him for the murder of a notorious gang leader. I saved his life by proving he was in another part of town at the time, carjacking.”

“Why’d they try to frame him?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know the whole history. I think he was just an innocent bystander who got caught up in something beyond him.”

“Lucky you were there,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes met his at last. Something in them softened.

Suddenly, Angelo was back, pen and paper in hand. “What’ll it be for you boys?” he asked.

“I’ll have the carbonara. Salad on the side please,” John said.

“Black coffee for me. Two sugars.”

“You’re not going to eat? We might not get to eat for a while.”

Sherlock shrugged again. “I don’t eat much.”

With that, Angelo collected their menus and was on his way. Sherlock stared out the window for another long moment, before leaning forward and lacing his fingers together on the table.

“I was thinking. We could call Irene. She’d be a good starting point for useful information.”

Irene. The woman who’d lived in the bedroom next to Sherlock’s. Why did he look so conflicted at the prospect of calling her? Was that what he’d been contemplating so deeply the last several minutes?

For the second time, John wondered if Irene had been his girlfriend of sorts. Even if they hadn’t labelled it that way. He couldn’t imagine that nothing had ever happened between them, if they worked together and lived in such close quarters. He imagined Irene as young and beautiful.  _ Much like Sherlock _ , his mind supplied. He thought of them coming home together late one night, after a tough day. How easy would it have been to stumble into one bedroom together instead of separating? Just for the physical comfort. Something wholesome to cling to in the midst of their dark lives. There was something about tough circumstances that just pulled people together, after all.

John clamped his jaw tight and forced the thoughts out of his head.

_ Just because you and Mary slept together doesn’t mean Sherlock and Irene did,  _ he reminded himself. Plus, even if they did, it was none of his damn business anyway. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

“Irene,” he agreed. “Sure. If you think it’d be a good idea.”

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. He dialed her number, put it on speaker, and set it on the table between them.

As John listened to the ringing, he realized how ridiculous it was for him to speculate on Sherlock and Irene’s relationship. He knew nothing about her. For all he knew, she could be 50 years old or something.

The call connected.

“Sherlock?” came a breathy voice dripping with sensual femininity.

_ Fuck, _ John thought. She was young and definitely gorgeous.

“Irene.”

“What is it? Are you alright? Do you need help?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine.”

An impatient sigh came from the other end of the line. “Then what is it? You know I can’t be talking to you anymore. Evans would be-”

“Yes, I know. This’ll be quick. I just need a small favor. Where are you right now?”

“The house.”

“And he’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I need you to get on his computer. Right now please.”

“Sherlock, what is this?”

“Irene, please!”

A pause followed. Even John glanced across the table, surprised at the desperation in his voice.

“Fine. This is a one-time thing, you understand? You can’t ask me to do something like this again.”

Another pause, followed by the sound of footsteps descending some very old, creaky stairs, a door opening and closing, and then typing on a computer.

“Alright. What now?”

“Tell me who he’s been in contact with recently. Nothing work related. Just unfamiliar names. Suspicious conversations.”

John scrambled to get his book out of his jacket to take notes.

“He deletes his messages often. But . . .  he’s had recent and regular contact with a Sean Middleton and a Tony Hudson.”

Something visibly clicked in Sherlock’s eyes at the names given.

“Who else?”

“That’s all I can give you. Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“Okay, I need one more thing, and then I won’t bother you again. Don’t ask why, but did he ever tell you anything about his personal history?”

“His personal life?” Irene said. “Not much. When I first started working for him, way back before you showed up, he mentioned a girl named Chelsea. Months later I asked him about it. Surprisingly, he told me. Chelsea was his daughter. She died when she was eight, apparently. She had some chronic illness. I don’t know the details. His wife, Kira, passed away shortly after that. From grief, it sounded like.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all he told me. But from what I’ve pieced together, he was working some cushy, upstanding job when all that happened. After he lost his wife and daughter, he began to spiral to where he is now.”

“Well. Wouldn’t call it much of a spiral. The man owns a spare house where he can afford to shelter random nobodies off the street.”

“Is that all, Sherlock?” Irene asked. John could hear the tired disapproval in her voice as he finished summarizing everything she’d said on the pages of the book.

“Yes, that’s all.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry.” The two words were layered with multiple apologies, not just the one. Irene sighed again, a worn sadness tinting her voice. 

“Take care of yourself, Sherlock.”

With that, they hung up. For a tense moment, Sherlock and John sat in silence. As they digested everything that had just been revealed to them, Angelo arrived with a black coffee and a single plate of steaming hot carbonara.

“So what now?” John asked delicately once he’d left.

“We start investigating these names. See what they’re up to. Why they’re all in cahoots.”

“You think they’re in on the attack?”

“Most definitely,” Sherlock said, tugging John’s plate towards his to scoop a quarter of his noodles onto his empty appetizer plate.  _ Please, help yourself,  _ John thought, but didn’t stop him.

“So who do we start with?” he asked.

“Tony Hudson.”

“That was rather quick. Do you know him or something?”

“You could say that,” Sherlock said through a mouthful of noodles.

“How?”

“I know the vacant building where he spends most of his time. We can start there, go on a stakeout of sorts. We could stay at the hostel across the street. Between the two of us, we should have enough cash for a night or two there.”

John watched him, noticing how quickly he’d rushed on the conversation when asked about Tony. No matter. If it was something important, Sherlock would have told him, so he dropped the subject. 

“Stakeout it is, then,” John said, and dug into his pasta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good song to go with the scene of Sherlock getting high is "Monster" by Imagine Dragons :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment if you can :) I really appreciate them! <3


	5. The Vacant Building

The hostel they checked into had a perfect view of the vacant office building across the street. They were able to pool enough cash for a room for two people, rather than four or eight, in the hopes of gaining more privacy.

John had never stayed in a hostel before and didn’t know what to expect. The room was small, but not necessarily cramped. It was larger than a college dorm room, at least. There were two twin beds against the center of the wall with a single nightstand in the middle.  He dumped his backpack on the right-side bed, claiming it as his own, and then lightly bounced up and down to test the springs. Not bad. The covers didn’t seem very comfortable, he noticed as he ran his palms along the scratchy, blue material. But honestly, he wasn’t going to complain, given that pretty soon he’d be sleeping on the cold, hard ground of Sherlock’s nook.

He removed his jacket to get more comfortable as Sherlock braced his palms against the window, gazing out across the street.

“See anything?” he asked, taking out the cheap sandwiches they’d picked up at the shop next door.

“No. We won’t be able to see much at this time. Everyone's behind the building anyway.”

John wondered again how exactly Sherlock knew this man Tony. It didn’t sound like they were in contact, nor did seem like they’d been friends. Perhaps it had been a professional acquaintanceship. But then how was Sherlock so familiar with his schedule?

“How many people is ‘they?’” he asked.

“Can’t say for sure. Judging by the tracks in the dirt, at least four including Tony, but probably a lot more.”

John walked up behind Sherlock to look out the window from around his shoulder. It was so strange, and a bit mysterious, to see the building so clearly but remain cut off from everything behind it, the things they really needed to see.

“You should eat something. You sandwich will get cold,” John prompted in an attempt to break Sherlock from his nearly comatose stare.

“It’s a cold sandwich, John. And I don’t eat much while I’m working.”

“You barely ate at Angelo’s this morning. You need to put something in your stomach.”

“Yes, thank you,  _ mum. _ I’ll eat in my own time.”

John suppressed an eye roll. “Didn’t you say you knew him? Tony, I mean. What would happen if you were to . . .”

“I couldn’t show my face there. He’d likely have me beaten senseless. Probably tell me yet again what a worthless piece of shit I am.”

John looked up at Sherlock, who remained staring out the window unknowingly. There was something guarded about his face, something wistful in his eyes. He’d tried to conceal the hurt in his voice when repeating what Tony had said about him, but it showed in the way he lowered his eyes and spoke quieter. 

Sherlock had a significant history with this man Tony, one he wasn’t willing to share. John knew it wasn’t his business, but he couldn’t help feeling just a bit hurt that Sherlock didn’t trust him yet. After all, he’d given up his job and his home to come help him, hadn’t he? He’d killed for him, they’d exchanged life stories. If they were going to work together, shouldn’t they be able to share openly, confide in one another? 

John traced his eyes down the neat outline of Sherlock’s cheekbones, accentuated sharply from this angle. He stopped when he reached his finely curved lips and lingered there, almost sadly, willing them to open and share what needed to be shared. When nothing came, he looked back up to see Sherlock still so engrossed in the building that John wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d forgotten he was standing there.

“Hey, um,” he started, placing a hand on Sherlock’s upper arm to get his attention. Sherlock glanced down to his hand questioningly, then back up to him.

“Sorry,” John said, and quickly pulled his hand away. “I’m gonna go hit the showers, okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, and turned back to the window.

Assuming that was all he was going to get, John went to retrieve his clothes.

“For what it’s worth,” he said as he opened the door. “I don’t think you’re a worthless piece of shit.”

 

**********

 

John’s parting words echoed in Sherlock’s ears as he listened to the door closing behind him. His upper arm was still warm from where John had touched him. He found himself wishing they would touch more often, in that casual way that trusted friends did. Except John wasn’t a friend, he reminded himself. He was a partner, an associate. At least that’s what John would probably call it. 

He sighed and looked across the street at the drab office building. Very little had changed since Sherlock had last seen it. He could only hope that Tony Hudson’s routine hadn’t changed either.

Tony was Sherlock’s drug dealer for the first few years after he ran away. But he fell behind on money pretty quickly, living on the streets and all. When he couldn’t pay up for the umpteenth time, Tony cut him off. Luckily, he didn’t suffer for too long; Evans took him in very shortly after that.

Of course, John would never know any of this. 

***

Hours later, Sherlock and John had both showered and gotten ready for bed. It was dark outside, and they’d had little luck with the spying. But worst case scenario, they had enough cash for another night or two at the hostel.

While John settled into his blankets, Sherlock sat upright on his bed and jotted a few last minute notes into the book. He finished up quickly for John’s sake, set it aside on the stand, and turned out the nightstand lamp. The yellow afterglow illuminated John’s face for another few seconds before fading out, leaving them both as dark outlines to one another’s eyes.

John was watching him as he settled into his bed, curled up and hands tucked under his pillow like a child.

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked, his voice soft in the darkness. Sherlock rolled to face him and resituated his blankets.

“We could take turns lingering outside to catch wind of any conversations. It shouldn’t draw too much attention since none of them have seen our faces or know who we are.”

Whereas Sherlock expected a least a hum of affirmation from John, he was met with only silence.

“Oh, um. I should probably mention - I think I might have run into one of Tony’s men in the bathroom,” John said as though it were an afterthought, but Sherlock could tell it had probably been on his mind since he’d returned from the showers.

“What do you mean?”

“I think he just wanted to check out the new company. Apparently people rarely stay in this hostel. It’s probably why they chose this location.”

“Do you think he was suspicious?”

“Nah. But I did flip the question and him what he was doing here himself. He said worked around here. I guess he thought a traveler would buy that bullshit.”

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock drawled, proud that he’d even thought to ask when put on the spot like that. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking John’s tiny smile at his praise.

“Will it throw off our plans for tomorrow, though?”

“No. We’ll just make sure you stay out of sight.”

John nodded slowly. After some silence, his eyes began to droop closed. Sherlock considered letting him drift off and rolling over to catch some sleep himself, but he was suddenly hit with a wave of courage. Perhaps it was the illusion of safety the darkness provided him. Perhaps it was the soft openness with which they were speaking, like children at a sleepover. It made him feel like he could ask anything without repercussion.

“John?”

Those large eyes flew back open. “Yeah?”

“Do you regret quitting your job with Mary?”

John scrunched his eyebrows at him. “God, Sherlock, no. What makes you think-”

“We’re living off the cheapest food we can find. We’ll soon be back to living on the streets. We have very little money and no way of making more. You can’t tell me you don’t miss having a proper home.”

“Sherlock,” John started slowly. “I want to be here. Okay? I could’ve stayed there if I wanted, but I didn’t. It was completely my choice to leave.”

“Yes, but why?”

John sucked in his bottom lip, looking like he was debating his next line. “I’ll tell you if you tell me how you know Tony.” The words rushed out of his mouth, and the moment the sentence was out, he looked like he wanted to take it back.

Sherlock watched him from his bed, mouth parted as he found himself caught utterly speechless. He wasn’t going to tell John what he wanted to know. And likewise, John wouldn’t tell him anything. They’d found themselves in a stalemate, and there was only one thing he could think of to say.

“Goodnight, John.”

He closed his eyes, but it was hard for him rest when he could feel those big, blue eyes still fixed on him, waiting, possibly a little hurt. It took everything in him to keep his eyes clenched shut. At last, he heard a light sigh and a shift in the other bed. He peeked to find John rolled over, sheets tucked tight around his stiff, curled figure.

Sherlock knew it was too good to be true. Of all the questions John could’ve asked, he chose the one he wasn’t willing to answer. And now their conversation was over, short-lived because of him and his stupid habit. This is what always happened when he had the chance of connecting with someone. They found out about the drugs, and everything changed. Suddenly, he was a pity case, a project for them to fix, a junkie. It happened with his brother, the few exes he had, Irene . . . The only person who never looked at him differently was Janine. And his drug habit, amongst other things, was what ended up getting her killed.

John would never - could never - find out about the drugs. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him with the information; it was that he couldn’t stand to see that kind of disappointment and disgust in John’s eyes. In the short time they’d know each other, John had gotten under his skin in a way he didn’t think was possible. He was a man who gave up his dream for his alcoholic sister, who still loved her even after she abandoned him. He travelled hours for a friend he hadn’t seen in decades just to ensure he was safe. He killed without hesitation to save Sherlock’s life. Now he was here, roughing it in hostels with him for a greater cause. John was a good man. Sherlock wanted to put on his best face for him. To show him the best side of himself, and only the best.

_ “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a worthless piece of shit.” _

As of right now, John thought at least somewhat highly of him. Though he felt he didn’t even deserve that much. He was a homeless man who’d lost his only “job” all because of a stupid, impulsive decision. Yet John didn’t seem to see any of that. He followed him, took orders, smiled at him, spoke kindly to him . . . no one had ever warmed up to him that quickly before, ever.

Deep, steady breathing came from the other bed. John’s form rose and fell gently under the scratchy, blue blankets. The way his body was curled made him appear even smaller than he did standing up. 

Watching him, Sherlock found that he would do anything to safeguard his untainted image in John’s mind. The only way to do that was to ensure they never got close enough for Sherlock to inevitably disappoint him.

***

Sherlock woke to the sunlight leaking in through the translucent curtains. He rolled onto his back and stretched, enjoying the proper bedding that he knew he wouldn’t have much longer. He sat up, looked to the other bed, and was surprised to see it neatly made. And more importantly, empty.

“John?” he asked, looking around at the empty room.

A number of possibilities flew through his mind. Did John go out for a late night pee? Was he attacked? Did he never return to the room? He strode over to the window and scanned outside for any sign of him. Nothing. Just as he was about to grab for his jacket and head out, still in his pajamas, the bedroom door unlocked.

In came John, taking two tinfoil wraps out of his pockets.

“The sandwich place from last night serves breakfast, too. Egg wrap?” he said, offering one of them up.

Sherlock glared at him as his heart rate returned to a normal speed.

“You really need to stop disappearing in the mornings like that,” he said, accepting his wrap.

“Why?” John asked, dropping onto his bed and taking a bite. “You know I’ll come back.” The certainty with which he said it, as though there were no other possibilities, caused something in Sherlock’s chest to tighten.

“Still. It . . . worries me.”

John paused and fixed him with a curious look. Sherlock could see the word “why” forming on his lips again before he dropped it and hid his smile behind his breakfast wrap.

***

During their first day at the hostel, they took turns lingering outside in hopes of catching wind of anything. They strolled up and down the sidewalks at various times, separately of course, observing the passing cars and catching glimpses of a few faces. But ultimately, not much happened on the front side of the building. The men who showed up always disappeared around the back to where they could no longer hear or see.

The second day didn’t have much more to offer. They took breaks from their posts by slipping into the sandwich shop, positioning themselves by the window so they could keep an eye on the street.

John saw Sherlock angry for the first time that afternoon back in their room. They had heard that Evans would be stopping by that day and had hoped to follow him, but they’d missed their shot. John went next door to pick up some tea and returned to the room, silently placing one cup on their shared nightstand and squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder in comfort. Sherlock waited until he knew John was no longer looking before he lifted his head from the clutches of his fingers. The tea was Earl Grey, a safe bet considering John didn’t know how he liked it, and coincidentally, exactly the right choice.  

On that second night, Sherlock got an unexpected eyeful in the bathroom. He walked in late at night when no one else would be there, and was surprised to see John stepping out of the shower, dripping wet with his towel tied low on his hips. Sherlock stood there frozen like a deer in headlights, unable to stop himself from drinking in every bit of the sight before him, feeling his own body heat in response to the muscular stomach, wet skin, and the firm V shape leading down to the towel. But what surprised him was that John looked just as embarrassed as him, as though he’d been caught red-handed. After an awkward moment of mutual, dumbfounded staring, they brushed past one another, mumbling red-faced apologies. 

On the third day, still with no luck in their investigation, Sherlock joined John in his evening workouts, removing his shirt and allowing John to instruct him on the proper form of push-ups and crunches, even though he already knew.

Every night so far, they had continued their routine of staying up to talk when the lights were off and the rest of the city slept. Laying down, facing one another from their separate beds, Sherlock learned that John enjoyed luxurious baths, the details of his friendship with Sholto, and the full story of how he’d acquired his bullet wound. And John learned that Sherlock played the violin, his mum was a mathematician, and his dog Redbeard had been put down when he was a child. But still no word from John about his job with Mary, and no word from Sherlock about Tony. Their nights always ended in long-held stares across the dark space between them, both hoping the other would break that barrier first, but the only word to ever break the silence was “goodnight.”

The third night they spent at the hostel, John had a nightmare.

Sherlock watched from his bed, unprepared for this and ignorant as to how to deal with it. John twisted and fidgeted in his sleep, muttering what sounded like his sister’s name and “don’t shoot.” When Sherlock couldn’t stand seeing him in pain anymore, he got up to use the bathroom, opening the door wide enough to invite the hallway light in to touch John’s sleeping face. He then shut it behind him much louder than necessary. While he was out, he really did make a quick trip to loo, and when he returned, he repeated his same tactics in case they hadn’t worked the first time. As he settled back into his bed, he saw John wide awake, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Sherlock waited in silence until John felt comfortable and safe enough to roll over and return to sleep. It was only then that he allowed his own eyes to drift back shut.

The fourth day was when they finally struck some luck. It was their last shot too; they really couldn’t afford another night at the hostel.

Sherlock watched Tony’s midnight blue car pull up to the side of the building. As he got out, one of the men they’d previously seen approached him. The conversation seemed urgent, and – Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes – as he dragged Tony to the back to deal with whatever issue had arose, he forgot to lock the door behind him.

“John,” Sherlock said, pressing his hands against the window.

“Yeah?”

“Grab your jacket. Downstairs. Now.”

Within a matter of minutes, Sherlock and John were crouching low behind parked cars on the street, waiting for the rest of Tony’s men to clear out before they snuck forward. With the slickness of trained thieves, they glided silently up to the vehicle and into the two front seats.

“Okay, we don’t have long. Let’s see what we have here,” Sherlock said from where he sat in the driver’s seat. The floor was covered in crumpled up receipts, napkins, and other junk. While he weeded through the mess to find anything of importance, John dug through the glove compartment.

“Lots of fast food. Cheap groceries. Cheap everything. He’s still in the same financial crunch he was in when I knew him,” Sherlock deduced as he read the receipts.

“He seems to be running a business back here, though.”

“Yes, well. I wouldn’t call it that.” He purposefully avoided the curious stare being pinned on him, and released a silent breath of relief when John dropped the subject.

“Oh, hello,” John said. Sherlock looked over to see him taking a massive wad of cash out of the glove compartment. “How much do you think this is?”

“At least a few thousand pounds. Go ahead, pocket some of it.” Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at John’s hesitation. “John, honestly. Now is not the time for a moral crisis. It was probably acquired illegally anyway.”

With that reassurance, John stuffed about a fourth of the stack into his jacket.

“What else, what else, what else,” Sherlock muttered, desperately trying to find anything of use. “Looks like he’s still cheating on his wife with a much younger woman. But that doesn’t help us much.”

“Poor lady,” John said sympathetically.

Sherlock joined him in searching the center console. They dug through it together, finding wrappers, more receipts, and old food. John found two scraps of paper stuck together by a dried coffee stain and pulled them apart. Scrawled on one of them in quick, sloppy handwriting was an address.

“Sherlock?” he said, handing it to him.

They’d struck gold. Written underneath the address was “S. M.”

“Sean Middleton,” they said together with a shared smile. John quickly copied the address down in his notebook.

“Shit. John, get down,” Sherlock hissed when he saw two shadows coming around the corner.

They both crouched as low as they could. The men’s muffled voices carried through the windows. When they started to fade, John tried peeking his head up to catch a glimpse of where they were, but Sherlock grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back down. Their faces ended up inches apart.

Sherlock could see every pore and curve in his face, as well as unwavering trust in the big, blue eyes that stared back at him - trust he felt he didn’t deserve. Their eyes remained locked firmly, in silent reassurance. Sherlock silently begged for the men to walk away. If they were discovered, they’d surely be dead, or worse, brought directly to Tony.

He lowered his eyes to John’s shirt collar crumpled inside his fist. The way he was pulling it forward revealed the thick, tan expanse of John’s neck. He trailed his eyes along it, noting the bobbing of his Adam’s apple every time he swallowed, the dip of his hollow, and the pounding of his pulse. He didn’t know why, but he was suddenly overcome with the urge to lean forward and press his lips to the spot where the pulse pounded visibly beneath his skin, whisper apologies and reassurances until it calmed down. After all, John was here - in danger - because of him, wasn’t he?

The mere thought of skin to skin contact sent a shivering rush through his body, and he forcibly tore his eyes away from John’s exposed throat.  _ Enough,  _ he told himself. He must stop thinking of John this way and keep himself under control. 

When he looked back up, John’s eyes were still on him, though they seemed a bit mistier than they had before. John licked his lips, glanced down to his mouth, and then back up. Somehow, in the matter of the few minutes they’d spent ducking, their faces had migrated even closer together. If Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, there even seemed to be a hint of a small, mischievous smirk playing at John’s lips. He swallowed thickly as voices battled inside his head. Oh, surely it wouldn’t hurt to lean in just a little bit more . . . 

All of a sudden, the voices grew louder, as did the footsteps. They broke eye contact and lowered their heads even more when they knew the men were within distance to look through the car windows. Sherlock closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. 

“Hey,” they heard from outside. “What’s that over there?”

Instinctively, he knew they’d been caught. It was just a matter of waiting now. The footsteps neared, and at last they heard a distinctive “Oi!” from one of the men.

The door to the driver’s seat was pulled open, and Sherlock sprang into action.

The man reached in to grab him. Sherlock rolled over, kicked him hard in the chest, and dove out of the car. On the other side, John got into a similar scuffle with the second man.

An arm locked around Sherlock’s throat. With some clever foot movement, he threw him off balance and flipped him onto his back. To ensure he didn’t get back up, he lifted him by his shirt and punched him hard in the nose. With the force of his punch and the snap of the man’s head against the ground, he was knocked unconscious in a second.

Meanwhile, John and his attacker had migrated to where Sherlock could see them. For a moment, everything else faded out, leaving only the sight of John in the midst of combat. Lip bleeding, face twisted, fringe falling forward, he braced himself in a stance that screamed of prior experience. The man swung at him, missing when John expertly ducked. The two found themselves in a sort of dance, punching, blocking, swinging. Each blow was delivered with brutal strength. The first person to get hit would be instantly knocked out. And John. He fought magnificently. Giving his all and positively glowing with feral exertion. Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away.

At last, John caught the man’s fist, and planted his foot for an expert flip. In a flash, the man was crippled on the ground and struggling to get up.

John looked up. His sweaty, overgrown fringe was almost touching his eye. Sherlock’s didn’t realize how long it was when it wasn’t pushed back in an effortless, graceful swoop. 

“Let’s go,” he said, panting. Sherlock snapped himself out of his daze and allowed John to take him by the wrist and lead him away.

“You broke that man’s ankle,” he said as they ran.

“Nope. Sprained it.”

 

**********

 

They hid out for a while down the street, and when they felt it was safe, returned to the hostel to retrieve their things. They couldn’t stay there now that Tony’s men had seen their faces.

John followed Sherlock back to the alley, where they deposited their few belongings and safely stored their newly acquired cash.

“You okay?” John asked as they settled in.

“A little sore, but yes. You?”

The metallic taste of blood zapped John’s tongue as he prodded his torn lip. “Alright,” he said.

“No you’re not. Come here.”

Sherlock strode forward, took John’s chin in his hand, and forced him to turn his head. John was so surprised that he didn’t even resist. All he could do was stare as Sherlock leaned close and zeroed in on his lips. His thumb lifted from his chin and brushed right beside the cut. John sucked in his breath at the touch, trying to calm the hammering of his heart, which he was positive could be heard by the entire city.

He didn’t want to admit it, but the way he thought of Sherlock had changed drastically over their stay at the hostel. All those late night talks, seeing Sherlock’s long, lithe form in the bed next to his, all that time spent in close proximity. . .  he couldn’t deny it. He was physically attracted to Sherlock. A lot. Every time they touched, every time he caught a whiff of his scent or they stood a bit too close, John tried to suppress the thoughts of desire that arose in his mind. Sometimes he was successful. Usually, he wasn’t. It was overwhelming, all encompassing.

And he’d never forget what had happened on their second night there. Every time he thought of it, his face burned with shame and humiliation, as though he’d violated some kind of trust between them. There he’d stood in the hostel shower, letting the hot water run down his body, when his thoughts wandered over to Sherlock. Particularly, that day they’d come home from St. Asaph. He remembered drinking in every detail of his naked torso under the warm glow of the lamplight. How Sherlock’s skin had felt under his hands, the firmness of his chest, the softness of his waist. He didn’t know what it was that prompted him to think of that all of a sudden, but before he knew it, his hand was travelling downwards. It lingered there in the curls of his pubic hair for a moment, hesitating, and then he was taking himself in his hand. He leaned forward against the shower wall, water running over his head and down his back as he stroked faster and faster, thinking thoughts that he’d never dare say aloud until he spurted all over his hand with a shuddering exhale. He stood there for a good few minutes, shaking and waiting until his face no longer felt beet-red before turning the water off and stepping out. And there, standing naked except for a towel tied low around his waist, was Sherlock. He’d been certain that Sherlock would know what he’d just done. Surely it was written all over his face, easily deducible. But if Sherlock knew, he never said anything.

That was really the crowning moment where he knew he could no longer deny the attraction he felt. It was there, always simmering under the surface no matter how badly he didn’t want to ruin the easy comradeship they’d found themselves in. Perhaps it had just been too long since he’d had sex. Though it had only been about a week since he’d slept with Mary. Surely he wasn’t  _ that  _ starved for human contact. Another part of his mind unhelpfully suggested that it had been much longer since he’d felt this kind of attraction for a man, let alone one he was spending this much time with. Perhaps his body missed it.

It certainly wasn’t complaining now as Sherlock’s thumb grazed over his bottom lip while they stood so close he could feel warm breath ghosting over his cheeks.

Sherlock looked up from his lips. His gaze made John feel pinned and highly exposed.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

John shook his head, as much as he could with fingers still loosely holding his chin. With one last glance down to his lips, Sherlock stepped back. He lowered his hand, but John quickly caught it in his own, turning the long fingers over to examine the bruised and bloodied knuckles.

“Had to punch him a few times before he stayed down.”

“Hurts?” John asked, mirroring Sherlock’s question.

“No.”

John fiddled with the long, bony fingers, delaying the moment when he’d have to let go. Sherlock indulged him, never making a move to pull his hand away, but at last, John couldn’t keep up the excuse of simply examining the injuries any longer, and he released it.

They stepped apart, letting their locked gazes linger another few moments before turning around to grant each other privacy as they changed into more comfortable clothes. John removed his button down shirt so he was left only in a white t-shirt, and then exchanged his trousers for the soft, track pants he’d brought to sleep in. As he waited for Sherlock to finish, he took a moment to look at the mattress on the ground. All day he’d been avoiding thinking of it. The twin hostel beds were nice while they lasted, but the mattress was Sherlock’s, and John was in no place to demand that he let him have it again. He was just going to have to deal with the cold, hard ground, shoulder be damned.  

Speaking of his shoulder, he hadn’t been able to ignore the pestering ache he’d felt since the brawl. Normally, this was when he’d do his evening workouts, but he wouldn’t dare exert himself in this state. He grabbed his shoulder and twisted his neck, hoping to stretch it but only causing himself more pain.

“Is it bothering you?” came Sherlock’s voice. John took that to mean he could turn around.

“Yeah, a bit.”

Sherlock was dressed in an old t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants.

“Well. I am familiar with the practice of muscle manipulation. I could. If you want.”

“What, you mean like a massage?” John was about to laugh but the stiff, uncertain look on Sherlock’s face stopped him. “You don’t have to do that,” he said instead.

“I want to. I can’t have a partner who’s out of commission because of a bad shoulder. What happens if you need to throw a punch tomorrow and you can’t? It’s a danger to us both.”

John couldn’t argue with that logic. And if he was honest with himself, the thought of having Sherlock’s hands all over him was more than a little titillating. “Alright then,” he found himself saying. “Where do you, uh. Where do you want me?”

“On the mattress. You’ll need to remove-”

John was already pulling his t-shirt off and setting it aside as he sat on the mattress. He didn’t know how to ask if he was supposed to lie down, but luckily he didn’t have to. Sherlock seemed satisfied with his cross-legged position and settled in behind him on his knees.

“I don’t have the necessary lotions for this to be done properly.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock.”

John could hear him rubbing his hands together behind him, probably warming them up. The sound shouldn’t have been as enticing as it was. He tried not to tense up in anticipation. After what seemed like a ridiculous amount of time, John felt long fingers trail through the hair on his nape up to his head.

“Let your head fall forward,” Sherlock coaxed, and John obeyed.

Then, fingertips skimmed over his left shoulder in light, focused circles, then expanded to brush almost teasingly over his trapezius and the base of his neck. The touch felt odd, like Sherlock was mapping him out with just the tips of his fingers. Barely any pressure was being applied at all.

“Breathe, John. I haven’t even started yet,” came Sherlock’s velvety, baritone voice as he restarted the process using his entire hand.

John exhaled obediently. Sherlock’s hand felt nice. More than nice. It was warm, solid, and sure of itself as it swept gracefully over his skin.

John felt him slowly curl his fingers inward until only his knuckles touched. Sherlock dug them into the side of his neck and followed the slope down his shoulder. He continued that same motion, over and over again, going unbearably and wonderfully slow. Each pass of his knuckles resulted in a new rush of combined pleasure and relief. John even rolled his head to give Sherlock more access to his neck. Sherlock continued dragging his knuckles down the offered slope, curling them in every time they passed the dip between neck and shoulder. John tried not to make any noise, but he couldn’t resist a small sigh of contentment escaping his mouth.

Soon, Sherlock began kneading the area with expert precision. The thumb of his other hand found its way into the groove of his shoulder blade, and John braced himself for the pain. It pressed in hard and dragged downward. He tensed, but held himself still, knowing it was all necessary and he would feel worlds better in the morning. It was painful for a bit, but slowly, the tension seeped out of him, as though Sherlock was directly absorbing it through his talented fingers. Now that the pain was starting to ease, it began to feel more like a massage. Another satisfied sigh seeped out of his mouth. Each spot graced by the touch of Sherlock’s skilled fingers felt ignited with buzzing pleasure. He never wanted this to end. The blissful warmth trickled through his body, and inevitably ended up in his groin. John shifted uncomfortably on the mattress to hide the growing evidence of his enjoyment. 

Suddenly, there was warm breath on his ear.

“Breathe, John,” came Sherlock’s voice sounding so deep it could rattle his bones. “It won’t hurt for much longer.”

Pain was the absolute last thing John was feeling at the moment, and far from the reason he was figeting so much. But he didn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed this time as he exhaled, not even trying to stop the low whine that came with it.

“That’s it,” came a soothing whisper.

Sherlock’s hand moved around to the front of his shoulder while the other one laid flat beside his trapezius.

“Relax all your muscles.”

Sherlock waited for him to obey before he used both hands to rotate his shoulder in wide circles. As this continued, it became easier to move it, less stiff. When it was moving fluidly and no longer tense, he stopped.

But his fingers didn’t leave his skin.

They lingered on his back for several, long moments. John opened his eyes, wondering if he should say something, turn around, or reach for his shirt. But the feeling of Sherlock’s pointed gaze on his skin kept him rooted in place.

Finally, fingertips skimmed from his shoulder down to his scar. John had stopped breathing again at this point. This was not part of the massage, and they both knew it. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes burning into the pink, marred skin as he studied it. His touch was almost reverent in the way it traced over its shape, softly as though he was afraid John would break under his fingers. 

John knew he should stop him, or say something. But instead he remained perfectly still and surprisingly calm as he let Sherlock inspect him to his contentment. He took the opportunity to glance down at himself, and was grateful for how his loose track pants shielded any evidence of the slight hardening in his crotch. He calmed down with a deep breath and willed himself to simply relax and enjoy what was happening.

When Sherlock finished his exploration, he reached around and nudged John’s shirt back into his hands, signaling that whatever was going on was over.

John clutched the bundled up material close to his chest before rotating on the mattress. Sherlock was sitting so close behind him that when he turned around, there were only inches between them. The distant, golden light from the nearest streetlight somehow made it into their tiny nook, casting beautiful shadows over Sherlock’s face and softening the sharp edges that usually made him so intimidating and untouchable. He wasn’t untouchable right now. John could reach forward and lay his fingers on his jaw, his neck, his arm, and he knew it would be alright and Sherlock wouldn’t stop him. But he didn’t. He only looked, keeping his hands safely bundled in his shirt for the time being. 

Sherlock’s gaze panned almost longingly across his clavicles and back up his throat before settling back on his eyes. They were softer and yet somehow more intense than John had ever seen them before. He found himself searching them for insights into Sherlock’s magnificent mind. Instead, he found only speckled hues of yellow, green, and red that he’d never noticed before. They were beautiful, and John had never loved the feeling of being laid open like a book before Sherlock’s fixed stare more than he did right now.

It seemed clear to him where this was going. Sherlock had just given him an intensely erotic rubdown, intentionally or not. They were standing far closer than usual. Sherlock was looking at him the same way he had earlier in the car when they were hiding from Tony’s men. If John wasn’t mistaken, he was almost inclined to believe that it was _possible_ Sherlock reciprocated the attraction he felt. Even just a little bit. If he didn’t, surely he would be stepping away right now, and not staring at him with glazed over eyes, wouldn’t he?

More confident now than ever, John let his lips curl up into a smirk as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them even more. He was now within distance to rise up on his tiptoes and press his lips to Sherlock’s waiting ones. But he waited. 

Sherlock reached forward and touched his forearm hesitantly. John felt a thrill at the small act of reciprocation. It was the only green light he needed. His confidence surged, but before he could act on it, the dazed, mistiness in Sherlock’s eyes cleared, and they snapped back into focus as though he had resurfaced from a trance. He pulled his hand away as though John’s skin was suddenly hot to the touch, and pushed the bundled shirt closer to his chest as a not-so-subtle reminder to put it on.

The small gesture, however insignificant, stung with the pain of a verbal rejection.

Sherlock turned and nearly fled to his boxes to dig out blankets for the night. John stood back, utterly befuddled at Sherlock’s sudden coldness. It was like a door has slammed shut in his face, and he simply could not pinpoint what had just gone wrong.

He felt utterly humiliated at how wrongly he’d read Sherlock’s body language. He’d felt so confident they were on the same page that the possibility of rejection hadn’t even crossed his mind. All he wanted to do now was crawl in a hole until the burning embarrassment wore off. But he couldn't do that; he was stuck here with Sherlock for the night, no matter how awkward or guilty it made him feel. All he could do was go to bed and hope that this little misunderstanding wouldn’t ruin their easy relationship.

“Guess I’ll be taking the floor then,” he said. His voice came out embarrassingly croaky.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said stiffly with his back still turned. “What’s the point of everything I just did if you’re only going aggravate your shoulder again. Take the mattress.”

“But-”

“I don’t plan on sleeping tonight anyway. I need to think.” 

Sherlock tossed the blanket at him without looking. John caught it and after another moment of hesitation, laid back on the mattress. Another thought crossed his mind: What was going to happen when Sherlock actually did need to sleep?

The most obvious solution made an appearance in his mind, admittedly not for the first time. But he knew Sherlock would never agree to it. If his reaction just now was anything to go off, he had no interest in being that intimately close as they slept, let alone doing any of the other things John wanted. 

He tucked the blanket around himself, ready to sleep, but nearly laughed when he saw Sherlock settling himself on the ground.

“Oh come on. You mean to tell me you’re going to sit there like that all night? You’ll kill your knees that way.”

Sherlock peeked one eye open, and the offer tumbled out of John’s mouth before he could even stop to think about it. “At least sit up here. There’s plenty of room on the side.” 

_ John, what the hell are you doing,  _ he scolded himself. Had he not just learned a very clear lesson about boundaries?

But surprisingly, Sherlock climbed onto the mattress and sat cross-legged beside him. John watched as he closed his eyes and steepled his fingers, hoping that whatever icy barrier Sherlock had just put up would melt. Maybe they could even stay up and chat like they had before in the hostel. But when Sherlock remained still and silent as a statue, he rolled over with a disheartened sigh and closed his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for how long this update took. But in all honesty, I can't promise it'll get better. This has been the hardest and busiest semester I've ever had. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this chapter was worth the wait, at least. A lot of comments last chapter had something to say about Sherlock’s one mattress… patience my darlings!! ;) 
> 
> Also, I used this site as a guide for writing the massage scene (there are gifs), so check it out if you want a visual ;) 
> 
> That's all! As always, thanks for reading and comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!!


	6. Heat of the Moment

Sherlock woke up when the sun was already high and shining. He rolled over onto his back for a stretch and pulled the blanket back up to his chest. Blinking his eyes open, he figured it was already late morning. He hadn’t expected to sleep that long – or at all, in fact. 

With a start, he realized where he was and bolted upright. It was then that he saw John sitting in the corner by his backpack, using the hem of his shirt to clean a small object in his hands.

“Morning,” John said.

“I’m – sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I-”

“It’s fine. I didn’t mind,” John said without looking up.

He held up the object in his hand to inspect it. The beating sunlight reflected off the shiny metal with a flickering glint. Sherlock realized it was a small butterfly knife with an elegant scarlet handle. John turned it over in his hands and then resumed polishing it with his shirt.

“Erm, John?” Sherlock asked, wondering how long he’d had such a weapon in his possession.

“What? Oh, this thing. It’s been in my bag, but after yesterday, I figured I should start carrying it around again.”

“You have a gun, don’t you?”

“Yes, but that wouldn’t have helped us yesterday. Firing would’ve drawn attention, whereas this allows us a quiet escape. With all the investigative work we’re doing, I’m assuming it’ll come in handy.”

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock said as it dawned on him how truly brilliant this idea was.

John grinned as though he knew exactly how brilliant he was and began fiddling with it mindlessly. Sherlock felt his face and neck warm at the sight of John sitting there with his first few buttons undone, toying idly with the gleaming, wickedly curved knife as confidently as he’d ever seen anyone handle a weapon. 

He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, feeling like it was suddenly too constrictive against his throat.

_ Cut it out, _ he coached himself, and forcibly tore his eyes away from John.

“We should probably sort through everything we learned yesterday in the car,” he said.

“Agreed.” John set the knife aside and reached for his notebook. “We didn’t get a chance to talk about it last night since . . . Anyway, so we know Tony is somehow dirt poor even though he - what exactly is it that he does?”

Sherlock didn’t take the bait, no matter how innocent John made his question sound. “Irrelevant, but let’s just say it’s a risky business that can either make you a boat load of money, or very little. What we’re still lacking is a connection to Evans.”

“Well, we know he visited that one day.”

“Yes, but we missed our chance to follow them unnoticed. But at least that gave us confirmation that they’re working together somehow. Which solidifies Sean Middleton as their third partner.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“You have the address written down?”

“Of course.”

“Then we investigate Sean. We’ll leave as soon as we get dressed.”

 

**********

 

They spent the entire day observing Sean’s flat from the across the street, trying to get a sense of his routine so they’d know when to risk breaking in. Occasionally, they caught small flickers of movement in the upstairs window when they knew he was out. There was clearly someone else living there.

When Sherlock told John that they should split up, he was initially surprised, but then agreed it was probably the best course of action. He stayed at the flat while Sherlock went off to evaluate how observant the neighbors were.

After a good hour or so, he decided to risk getting closer. He hadn’t mentioned it to Sherlock, but on their walk here, he had been struck with the odd sense that someone was following them. And throughout his time watching the flat by himself, he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of eyes on his back. But every time he turned around, he only saw the usual passing pedestrians. The feeling of being watched still ate away at him. Naturally, Mary’s thinly veiled threat rang in his ears.

_ “ _ _ I’m familiar with your habits. Remember what it is that I do here.” _

It was very possible she’d sent Eli after him. After all, John knew intimate details about Mary’s operation but no longer worked for her. Surely, she didn’t want him walking free with all that information.

John sidled up to the side of the flat and snuck to the back, where it was darker and he was less likely to be seen. It was then that he heard the light crunch of gravel behind him. Hyper-alert as he already was, he fingered the butterfly knife in his pocket but otherwise remained deathly still. When his follower was close enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand, he whirled around, pinned him to the wall and pressed the knife to his throat.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock stood stiff as a rod, looking cross-eyed at the knife at his jugular. He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing dangerously close to the blade.

“Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that!” John said, lowering the knife.

“I didn’t  _ sneak up _ on you. You just weren’t paying attention.” Sherlock tried to push away from the wall, but John kept him pinned with a firm hand to his chest and pointed the knife as if it were a scolding finger.

“Yes, you did. I could’ve seriously hurt you, or even killed you. Do you understand that?”

“Surely even you wouldn’t be that careless.”

“People don’t think clearly when adrenaline kicks in. What if I’d blindly stabbed at you?”

“Then that would make you stupid and impulsive, which I know you’re not.”

“Was it you who’s been creeping around me all day, too?”

“I have no idea what you’re-”

Suddenly, the sound of faint footsteps interrupted them. Someone was right around the corner. The shadow of a large man – the same height and build as Eli – grew larger.

“Shit.”

John clamped a hand over Sherlock’s mouth and pressed his body against the wall with his own, keeping them safely hidden in the shadows. Hopefully, the area was dark enough that they wouldn’t be seen, but they remained still and silent nevertheless. Sherlock grunted a protest, but John muffled it with his hand as a signal to keep quiet.

He kept his eye on the shadow, waiting for the man to pass so he could release Sherlock, who was starting to squirm uncomfortably against the wall. Finally, the shadow disappeared, and the footsteps turned around and returned the direction they’d come from. There was no saying for certain if it was Eli or not, but they were better off safe than sorry.

He removed his hand from Sherlock’s mouth and breathed in relief, but didn’t move otherwise. He felt Sherlock look down at him in question. When he met his eyes, he noticed that both his hands were flat against Sherlock’s chest now.

He still made no attempt to move. They’d never been this physically close together, and he found himself feeling like a deer in headlights, unable to react or move or think. So instead, he stared stupidly up at Sherlock, who was likewise making no attempt to push him away.

It was growing darker outside, but he could still make out Sherlock’s widely blow pupils. His eyes migrated down to his lips for what seemed like the umpteenth time. It seemed like every time they found themselves in a situation like this, he couldn’t help but look at them.

“John,” Sherlock said softly. He gently cupped John’s knife-wielding hand. To an outsider, it would look like he was holding it close to his chest, but John knew it was Sherlock’s gentle way of requesting for him to move – just like last night when he’d nudged the shirt into his arms.

He stepped back obediently, feeling embarrassed.

“Sorry about that.”

“What happened?”

“I thought I saw . . . it’s not important. He’s gone now.”

He considered telling him about the people Mary might’ve sent after him. But with a twinge of annoyance, he remembered how Sherlock had still not told him about Tony and decided against it.

“Another old friend?”

“No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. Just drop it, will you?”  

“What did you mean someone was following you around all day?”

“Nothing,” John said. “Let’s go.”

***

That night, John practically forced Sherlock to share the mattress with him. There was plenty of room for two and he wasn’t going to let Sherlock sleep on the floor of his own home. It hadn’t been a problem the previous night, except for the fact that John had woken up with his nose smashed against Sherlock’s ribs.

Sherlock lay beside him, keeping cleanly to his side. John propped up on an elbow to look down at the angry, red line his knife had left on Sherlock’s throat.

“Hurts?” he asked. Sherlock swallowed, making the line dance under the movement of his Adam’s Apple.

“It’s fine,” he said.

In spite of his better judgement, John reached out and tenderly stroked a thumb over the line. If he hadn’t been so close, he would’ve missed Sherlock’s slight intake of breath. There was nothing John wouldn’t have given in that moment to pull him closer and become better acquainted with every freckle and dip in his neck.

When he looked back into Sherlock’s eyes, he nearly cursed. Sherlock was watching him with guarded eyes. His lips were pursed, and his hands were folded over his chest, held there stiffly as though he was barely controlling himself. John realized he probably wanted to shove him away, but out of some misguided politeness, he was allowing John to do what he wished despite his discomfort.

John pulled himself away and rolled over, chastising himself once again.

_ You’re making him uncomfortable,  _ he thought.  _ Get ahold of yourself. _

He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the warm body laying so temptingly close to him.  

 

**********

 

After John rolled away from him, Sherlock let out a silent breath of relief. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to resist John’s clear willingness to experiment with their relationship. But this relationship could afford no experimentation if it was going to last. He simply couldn’t allow it. The further they went, the more John would be hurt when he realized Sherlock wasn’t who he thought he was. And the higher they went, the harder Sherlock would fall when John inevitably left him because of it.

***

Sherlock woke up with his arms and legs curled next to John’s warm body. His head was nestled comfortably on John’s bicep, which was thrown across Sherlock’s side of the bed.

He looked up at John’s sleeping face. His mouth was gaping open as he softly snored. His eyes flickered back and forth behind his eyelids. As much as Sherlock would’ve like to stay there for another hour, he scooted off the mattress and busied himself updating their notes until he heard a deep sigh behind him.

“Morning,” John grumbled.

He grunted in response.

“What are we doing today?”

“We’re breaking into Sean’s flat. He’ll be gone from 12 to 1, so we have a few hours to get ready and head over there.”

When John was finished getting ready, the two of them left the alley and began the walk to Sean’s flat.

“I’m starving. Maybe we should get food first,” John said.

“Just take something from Sean’s fridge.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

John snickered as though snatching a quick snack from someone’s fridge was the most deviant thing imaginable. Sherlock watched him in amusement. Stealing food was hardly the most illegal or immoral thing they’d done together, yet here John was, immensely tickled by it for some reason.

John looked over their shoulder as if to check that no one had overheard their devious plan, and Sherlock found himself fighting off an endearing smile.

Suddenly, he was painfully reminded of a similar moment with Janine. The two of them were sitting cross-legged by the water, sharing a cigarette and enjoying a single moment of peace in their chaotic lives.  

 

_ “My father had a massive fortune. I was his only child, so it all went to me after he died. But one of his old colleagues wanted to expose all the illegal things my father had done to earn his money.” _

_ “Why would he do that?” Sherlock asked. _

_ Janine looked out onto the water as the soft wind made her dark curls dance around her face. _

_ “I think my dad cheated him out of some money at some point. They didn’t get on.” _

_ “All that over a little deception?” _

_ “It was a lot of money.” _

_ Rather than sounding ashamed of her father, she sounded proud, and just a little mischievous, as though she had partaken in the deceit as well. They shared a brief chuckle over it. _

_ She passed the cigarette over to him, and he put it between his lips. The hot smoke billowed down his throat and curled around his lungs. He tilted his chin up and blew out a white puff, then watched it dissolve into the air. _

_ “Anyway. I found Evans, and he helped me cover it all up so I could collect the inheritance. I owe him a huge debt for that.” _

_ Sherlock knew better than to ask why she hadn’t just given him some of the money. He knew that wasn’t how Evans operated. People repaid him in labor that  _ resulted _ in either more money or personal gain. In Janine's case, it was a bit of both. Sherlock always thought part of him got off on having an iron fist of control over other people’s lives. It might explain why he preferred it to direct payments.  _

_ Sherlock passed the cigarette back. “How long will it take to pay it all off?” _

_ “Who knows. I’m afraid to ask.” _

_ He understood that all too well. Deep down, he was sure both of them knew that one did not simply pay off a debt to Mitchell Evans. They stayed until he dismissed them. _

_ “What’re you going to do with the money once your debt is paid?” _

_ “Daniel and I want to move away somewhere. Start over. It’s what we both need.” _

_ “Does he know what you’re doing here?” _

_ Janine laughed. “God, no. He doesn’t even know about the money yet.” _

_ “What does he think you’re doing out here then, spending all these nights away from him?” _

_ Sherlock could see her little smirk, even though her bangs covered her face when she looked down. _

_ “Late night bartending.” _

_ She passed the cigarette back to him and the two of them shared a laugh at poor Daniel’s expense. _  
  


Sherlock looked at John, whose head was bowed the same way Janine’s was, although without cascading locks to cover his face, Sherlock could see his tiny, impish smile in its entirety. He felt affection swell in his chest, as well as a pinch of guilt for allowing himself to even joke and laugh with John. It was toeing a dangerous line.

“Shoulder is feeling much better by the way,” John said, squeezing it with his hand. He looked at him for a response. Something in his eyes suggested there was more to this statement than a simple thank you.

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded tersely. He should’ve known better than to tempt himself like that, shamelessly indulge in what he knew would be an easy opportunity to – do what exactly? To touch John? To be intimate with him? That could no longer be allowed. He didn’t need a reminder of what happens to people he lets himself get close to. He hurts them. And more importantly, they get hurt.

 

**********

 

John followed Sherlock down the familiar sidewalk to Sean’s flat. Sherlock hadn’t responded much to his attempt at discussing the previous night. A small part of him felt rejected. He tried not to take it to heart, and more importantly, tried not to feel frustrated at Sherlock for closing up again. If Sherlock wasn’t interested in anything transpiring between them, that was alright, but he wished he wouldn’t totally shut down every time it seemed possible.

Their elbows brushed as they walked, and John noticed that Sherlock made no effort to put more distance between them.

Once at Sean’s flat, Sherlock told him to keep watch while he picked the lock.

“Why can’t we break in from the back?”

“This is a bit more thrilling, don’t you think?”

“For god’s sake,” John mumbled, looking around at the passerby’s strolling past them. He even smiled and nodded at a woman walking by with a pram.

“Alright, we’re in,” Sherlock said.

They slipped inside and closed the door behind them. John immediately made a beeline for the fridge. Sean wasn’t very well stocked. The fridge only contained a bit of fruit, half a sandwich in a zip lock bag, and an almost empty container of milk. John selected an apple and took the sandwich out of the bag.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was shuffling through drawers and cabinets.

“Oi,” John said, and tossed him the apple when he looked.

The two of them searched the flat, quickly and quietly and with minimal disturbance.

Sherlock found an address book and asked John to jot down anything of interest inside it. John later wrote down the schedule pinned to the fridge in case it would come in handy later, and then searched Sean’s desk.

“Hey, Sherlock,” he said when he found a checkbook with some interesting transactions. “You think this is important?” When he got only a hum for a reply, he started copying down information to study later. “Sherlock?” he called. Still no response. When he turned around, he found him staring at a picture frame on the TV stand.

He went over to look at the picture, which was of two men with their arms around each other. John recognized the taller, silver-haired man as Sean, who they had seen coming in and out of the flat the last two days. The other man was a younger brunette with tan skin and his overgrown hair pulled back into a bun. Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on him.

“What’s the matter?” John asked. “Do you know him?”

Sherlock set the frame down delicately and scanned over the flat as if seeing it again for the first time. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John asked. He was getting real sick of Sherlock not letting him in on vital information.

Looking at the picture again, John decided the two men kind of reminded him of Sherlock and himself. Sean was stocky and broad-shouldered. His short-cropped, silver hair resembled what John’s would probably look like in a few years. The other man was thinner and younger, with dark curls as vibrant and bouncy as Sherlock’s.

John looked around with Sherlock and noticed for the first time the different sized coats on the rack, the two different shoe sizes by the mat. It seems they had discovered who the second inhabitant of the flat was. But who was he?

All of a sudden, they heard fumbling at the front door and shared a look of mutual panic. They took off running down the hall and scrambled to find a place to hide. The door John opened first led to the flat’s only bathroom – a terrible hiding place. Sherlock opened the next door, which happened to be a very small, compact supply closet.

“In here,” he whispered. The two of them squeezed inside. There was barely enough room for one grown man in there, let alone two. They ended up pressed flat together, facing one another, with John’s back against the door.

The front door opened, and two sets of footsteps entered the flat.

“- swear I didn’t leave it unlocked,” said one man.

“Must’ve been you. You were the last person to leave.”

Sherlock and John shared mischievous smiles in the dark.  The man with the heavier footsteps – presumably Sean – headed to the fridge.

“Oi! Victor! Did you eat my sandwich?” he called to the other man who was washing his hands in the bathroom.

“I didn’t touch your bloody disgusting tuna!” 

“So, a fairy must’ve come and taken it then?”

John covered his mouth to stifle a laugh while Sherlock similarly bit his lip to contain himself.  Sean met his (flat mate? boyfriend?) in the hall and stopped right in front of the closet. John stared up at Sherlock as the two of them silently pleaded for the door to remain closed.

“Maybe I threw it out yesterday with the stale bread or something. Sorry, Vic,” Sean said.

“Mm. S’okay, love.”

The sound of soft kissing leaked in through the slats of the door. Definitely a boyfriend then. John shifted uncomfortably as the kissing continued, loud and clear for them to hear. He avoided Sherlock’s eye, since it was already awkward enough for them to be pressed so close, let alone listening to this right on the other side of the door.

A loud moan ensued, and Victor was pushed back against the door, causing John to jerk slightly from the force. He glanced up and saw that Sherlock was looking down and to the side, probably equally as uncomfortable as him.

The sound of fabric rustling came next. Thankfully, the two men started migrating to the bedroom, which happened to be right across from the closet. John waited for the sound of a closing door so they could make a run for it, but it never came. The bed creaked as they crashed onto it, and the kissing and moaning continued. John looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question: “Can we go?” 

Sherlock shifted forward to squint through the slats.  _ Damn them for not closing the door. _ Sherlock’s hips pressed against John’s as he attempted to get a better view over his head. The unexpected friction brought John’s attention to the fact that his groin was not entirely as soft as it should have been. He knew he had a bit of a thing with danger and adrenaline, and so far, it hadn’t been an issue. But here in this closet, pressed tight against the length of Sherlock’s body, with the vivid sounds leaking through the door, and now Sherlock’s crotch rubbing against his – perhaps it might grow to be a problem.

As Victor panted and moaned, John found himself wondering what Sean was doing to cause such sounds, and what it would take for Sherlock to make the same ones. He mentally kicked himself for comparing Sean and Victor to himself and Sherlock earlier, as he now couldn’t get that visual out of his head as he heard their clothes being discarded and the bed creaking underneath them. He could feel Sherlock’s breath right above his ear. Their hips were snug against each other and John’s situation wasn’t lessening one bit. He inhaled deeply and blew the breath out through his nose, willing the tightness in his jeans to go away or at least simmer down. His cock was hardening very quickly, and if it didn’t stop, Sherlock would be able to tell very soon.

Sherlock leaned down to murmur in his ear. “If they start engaging in oral sex, we can make our escape. If Victor is receiving, he’ll finish in six minutes. If he’s giving, it’ll take between nine and twelve minutes. We can time our escape with their climaxes. But if they start preparing for penetrative sex, we might be here a while longer.”

_ Jesus Christ. _

Those words were all he needed for the stirring in his groin to spring into a full erection. Then, with the force of a truck, John was struck with the realization of how Sherlock could possibly know this information about Victor. An unexpected surge of boiling jealousy coursed through him. Suddenly, Victor’s wanton sounds were no longer enticing. They filled him with seething envy.

They heard a high whine from the bedroom. John wasn’t familiar enough with their voices to identify who it was, but Sherlock leaned in until his lips tickled his ear and whispered, “Six minutes.”

A shiver ran through John’s body, either from the teasing breath on his skin or the wet, sucking sounds coming from the bedroom. Probably both.

It was the most agonizing six minutes of his life.

Sherlock was leaning over him. He could smell him, feel his warmth, see his pulse throbbing in his neck. The crossing signals of his arousal and jealousy made for an incredibly difficult test on his self-control. It took everything in him to not pull Sherlock down by his collar and stake his claim – make it impossible for him to remain quiet. Drown out Victor’s obnoxious noises. John bit his lip and threw his head back against the door as Sherlock leaned further into him to grip the door handle.

There was no missing his small gasp. He knew.

John averted his eyes in shame and apology. He was certain Sherlock would be pushing him away right now if he could, just as he did every other time John had stepped out of bounds.

_ God, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. _

He cursed himself remembering how uncomfortable and fidgety Sherlock had gotten back behind the flat, and when John had closed in on him after the massage.

He risked a glance up into Sherlock’s eyes. In the dark, he could see his pupils blown wide, staring right back into his own. John saw discomfort in his gaze, as well as shock and . . . was that lust? No. He pushed the thought from his head, knowing it was purely wishful. Sherlock wasn’t interested in him like that. He’d made that clear time and time again.

He closed his eyes and turned his head, though he could still feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. The sounds coming from the bedroom were growing in intensity. Sean’s enthusiastic humming was nearly drowned out by Victor’s moans; his breath was starting to hitch.

“One minute,” Sherlock whispered. “There’s a door in the back that’s much closer to us. We’ll make a run for it while they’re both distracted.”

John nodded without opening his eyes. The minute ticked by slowly until at last, they heard an unmistakable cry. Sherlock opened the door, and they both slipped out. John caught a glimpse of a silver head of hair buried between two shaking, tan legs before he followed Sherlock out the back.

The moment they were outside, he took a deep breath of fresh air. He even gave his crotch a quick squeeze when Sherlock wasn’t looking just to relieve some of the ache, though he knew what he really needed was a massive wank full of anger and confusion. 

The air was muggy with an oncoming thunderstorm. They’d be lucky if they made it home before the rain started to pour.

“You have the notebook?” Sherlock asked. John was thankful for his avoidance of the elephant in the room, though it lingered heavy in the air between them.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Good. We’ll need-”

“Oi!” they heard from around the corner.

A familiar looking man approached them. It was one of the neighbors – who had just seen them sneaking out the backdoor of a flat that belonged to someone else.

“You stay there. I’m calling the police right now,” he said.

Sherlock launched forward and wrestled the phone out of his hand. The man fought back but was no match for Sherlock. He expertly locked his arm behind his back and pushed him against the wall. It was a technique John had never seen before – it rendered the man helpless while not hurting him at all unless he struggled. 

“What’s going on here is far too complex for your pedestrian little mind to comprehend and unless you want your wife to know that you’ve contracted herpes from your son’s principal, I suggest you keep what you saw to yourself.”

The man whimpered and nodded, and Sherlock let him go.

“Come on, John,” he said. The two of them started to walk away, but the hairs on the back of his neck raised just in the nick of time. He turned to see the man cocking his fist to take a swing at Sherlock, and whipped the butterfly knife out of his pocket.

“Step back. Right now,” he said.

The man put his hands up and listened, though he was clearly peeved that he wouldn’t be playing hero tonight. John kept the knife on him until Sherlock was safely back in the light and then followed.

This time, when they walked, John noticed Sherlock purposefully keeping enough distance between them so that they wouldn't touch at all.

***

They didn’t escape the rain. By the time they got home, it was pouring down in sheets. The water had soaked through every layer of clothing they wore. The mattress was dry, due to the protection of the balcony overhead, but the rest of the area remained exposed to the rain.

“John, do me a favor and help me lift this.” It was the only thing Sherlock had said to him since they’d escaped the flat.

He helped him lift a large sheet of tarp and create a tent-like roof above them.

Then, they began peeling themselves out of their wet clothes. John stripped down to his thin, white t-shirt, which was soaked and plastered to his skin. He kept his back turned as Sherlock changed, though he could feel his piercing stare burning a hole into his back. He braced himself against the wall, willing himself to cool down.

He truly felt awful about what had happened in the closet. He was thankful Sherlock wasn't bringing it up, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. His erection had softened, but the entire area still ached with a burning need to be touched. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, was barely talking to him . . . John wouldn’t be surprised if he was contemplating breaking off their partnership.

“John,” came his voice. “Your clothes.”

He passed over his wet clothes so Sherlock could lay them out to dry under the protection of the tarp. Sherlock was similarly dressed down to his trousers and shirt. The silence stretched on longer than it should have, with only the rain to buffer it. Finally, John couldn’t stand another moment of it and decided against his better judgement to attempt small talk. 

“So, erm. This Victor guy.”

“What about him.”

“You two were together?”

“I fail to see how this is relevant to our mission."

Sherlock was avoiding eye contact and probably didn’t want to talk, but John tried again.

“That arm lock you used on the man earlier. I’ve never seen it before.”

Sherlock merely hummed in response. John waited for more, but nothing came. With that, he gave up on conversation and went to collect a dry t-shirt to sleep in.

“I could show you if you want.”

He turned back around.

“Show me the arm move?”

“If you want.”

It was probably not smart to let Sherlock touch him in any way at the moment. Though on the other hand, John figured a bit of action might clear his head. He hadn’t worked out for a while anyway.

“Yeah, alright.”

They stood facing each other in the clearing.

“It’s a simple judo move. Practical, but not often used since it doesn’t leave much room for further fighting. The purpose is to keep your opponent still without hurting them. You simply twist the wrist halfway, wrap the elbow behind the back and guide them whichever direction you want. Facing you, turning around, even bending over.”

“Okay, show me.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be authentic, since you’d be expecting it.”

“What do you suggest then.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Let’s spar a bit and see where it takes us. I’ll lock your arm in an unexpected moment and you can feel what it’s like.”

“Okay.”

With that, they put their fists up in front of their faces and began casually circling each other. Sherlock swiftly dodged a few punches from John. John blocked a return blow from him. Sherlock spun elegantly and kicked him in the stomach. He bounced back and landed a strike to the chest. Back and forth they went, until suddenly, John was whirled around and shoved face-first into the wall with his arm locked behind his back.

Sherlock pressed in behind him as he struggled and failed miserably to break out of the hold. “You see?” he drawled into his ear. The baritone purr sent a shiver through him and re-sparked the arousal he’d been trying so hard to fight off.

He nodded and was released.

“This time I want you to try to get me in a pin. Or fight me off before I can re-pin you.” 

They resumed their stances and sparred some more. John got in two punches to his torso. Sherlock landed a jab and another kick. John tried to step in and lock his arm twice, but both times were expertly dodged. Then suddenly, he was back against the wall, this time facing Sherlock with one arm mashed behind him and the other pinned above his head.

“You left your right side undefended. Don’t give me access to your arms."

They were nearly nose-to-nose. John struggled to release even one of his hands, but to no avail. He was growing a bit frustrated now, once again finding himself battling crossed signals. His cock was straining against his jeans and he was so aggravated and turned on he could hardly see straight. Part of him wanted to put Sherlock in his place, but another part of him wanted Sherlock to keep him pinned there, press further into him so their bodies could touch.

To his slight disappointment, Sherlock released him again. He took a moment to catch his breath before putting his hands back up. It was hard to concentrate on fighting with the fully stiff cock in his pants begging to be released. It made for awkward footwork. It was almost too easy to overpower him when he was in this state. Sure enough, John found himself flat on his back within a minute, pinned helplessly to the ground. Panting, he looked up at Sherlock braced above him and wondered what it’d be like if he bent down and grazed his teeth over his neck. He squirmed against the hold, feeling utterly humiliated and embarrassed at his reactions. His breath came in heavy pants that weren’t at all from the sparring. Sherlock’s lips were so temptingly close to his. If his wrists weren’t restrained, he would’ve pulled him down to taste them. He even found himself arching up uncontrollably to increase contact between their bodies. Surely Sherlock was just being cruel at this point, knowing exactly what effect this was having on him. He fixed him with a heavy glare, wanting more than anything to reverse their positions and wipe that smug grin off his face. Show him a few moves of his own.

Sherlock applied a bit of pressure to his hold until John reluctantly tapped out. He offered a hand in helping John up, but it went ignored.

They resumed their sparring. This time, John quickly found an opening and swept Sherlock off his feet, pinning him to the ground exactly as he was before. Sherlock struggled briefly, but was held down by his weight.

A smug smile overtook John's face as he watched him slowly give up on trying to wriggle free.

“Like that?” he asked.

Their eyes locked and Sherlock relaxed under his hold. The hollow in his throat plunged deep with every inhale he took. The pale skin of his neck was glistening with sweat. John wanted to lean forward and taste it. The power of his position and the thrill from his success in defeating Sherlock dove straight to his groin. Sherlock looked so tempting underneath him.

John noticed he was no longer looking him in the eye, but instead at his lips. He licked them, feeling his chest heave with want. A little warning bell went off in the back of his mind. Sherlock didn’t want what he wanted. He knew that, and he’d done his best to respect it. But surely, if that was the case, he would be struggling to get up, would he not? Maybe he did want this then, and had just been playing coy all this time. He wondered what would happen if he were to lean down, just for a peck. . .

Suddenly, Sherlock gasped in  shock. He bolted upwards, easily breaking out of John’s loosened hold, and ran towards one of the boxes. John was left behind, baffled and aching in his jeans. His head spun with mixed confusion and desire when he stood up too quickly.

“Sherlock?” he asked cautiously.

“I’ve got it,” he said, his eyes alit with glee.

John’s head was still dizzied. It took him a moment to realize he was talking about their mission – now of all times, for some godforsaken reason.

Sherlock flipped through the notebook while John tried to pull his head out of his pants and catch his mind up to the present.

“All those transactions you copied from Sean’s checkbook.”

“What about it?”

“Sean is in the same financial crunch as Tony. Look at this. He was relying on Victor for a while. Meaning Sean has no money of his own. But something must’ve happened around this date, because Victor couldn’t provide anymore, and they switched to living as cheaply as they could.”

“So, you think they’re both motivated by money?”

“Yes!” Sherlock grabbed his shoulders in excitement. “Evans must’ve offered to pay them a generous amount.”

“Which also explains why he didn’t want to waste money on an assassin before.”

“Brilliant, John!”

“What about this address you wrote here? Whose is it?”

The letters ME and TH were written underneath along with a date and time.

“Mitchell Evans and-”

“Tony Hudson,” they finished together.

“It’s not a place of residence. It’s a rendezvous,” John said.

Sherlock beamed at him, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. He looked like he could hardly contain his energy. He was so thrilled and proud he could –

Suddenly, he surged forward and pulled John forward by his face, planting two hard kisses on his mouth. John was so shocked he could only stand there pliantly.

Sherlock froze in return and stepped back with widened eyes, realizing what he had just done.

“Oh god,” he breathed, looking ashamed and mortified. He took another step back and lowered his head in shame. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t apologize,” John said.

Sherlock looked up at him from under his lashes, red in the face and biting his lip self-consciously. They stared at one another, mutually dumbfounded. Several long moments ticked by where neither of them dared to interrupt silence between them nor the patter of rain striking the tarp above their heads .

“Uhhh,” John said stupidly, feeling his lip quirk up. Sherlock hugged his elbows, worrying his lip between his teeth as he braced himself for a reaction, perhaps a scolding. It was unacceptable - Sherlock thinking he had done anything wrong at all. “Can I do that?” he said breathlessly.

He strode forward and planted his mouth on Sherlock’s. Sherlock immediately latched onto him and kissed back with equal enthusiasm.

It was everything John imagined it would be. More than that. Sherlock tasted divine, panting wantonly into his open mouth. They breathed each other in as though suffocating, their lips suctioned together, drinking in every bit of the taste. Again and again, their lips slid over each other, open mouthed and gasping for more. Sherlock hesitantly braced his hands on John’s shoulders as John hummed softly.

They broke apart for air, though only briefly. While Sherlock caught his breath, John leaned into his forehead and placed both of his thumbs on his jaw, softly brushing the skin. His tongue darted for a delicate taste of his bottom lip. They both kept their eyes closed, as though eye contact would shatter the fantastical illusion of what was happening and pull them back to reality.  

Sherlock dipped to kiss him again, and a needy sound escaped from John as he turned them around so Sherlock’s back was against the brick wall. Solar flares of excitement were bursting in his head from the sheer joy of being allowed to finally kiss Sherlock - of Sherlock  _ allowing _ him to kiss him. 

He kissed Sherlock again. Then again. And again. Each time, humming deeply from the back of his throat. His sounds combined with Sherlock’s needy gasping turned him on more than anything else ever had. Each time their mouths broke apart, their tongues remained in contact, mingling wetly between them before they dove back together another again. Sherlock couldn’t decide where to put his hands – on his shoulders or cupping his neck, so he constantly switched between the two as John devoured his mouth with all-encompassing kisses.

The wet sounds produced from their kissing were so slick and sensual, they sent hot rushes of burning desire spiraling to his cock each time. Kissing Sherlock was everything he dreamt it would be.  _ Sherlock _ was everything he dreamt he would be. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. That Sherlock wanted this. Wanted  _ him. _

He pulled out to lick delicately at his lips again, letting a soft whine escape his lips. Sherlock shivered in his arms, and they broke apart again, both needing to catch their breaths.

This time, they looked each other in the eye.

Everything was still for a moment. The eye contact made it concrete; it was an acknowledgement that this was happening, an agreement to continue. John held his face gently in his palms as Sherlock’s hands settled on his chest. Looking into his eyes, with the tips of his fingers woven into his curls, John knew he had never wanted anyone the way he wanted Sherlock right now.  

John raised his eyebrows at him. At the same time, he dove forward again to ravage his mouth and Sherlock pulled him in by his face. They panted into each other, grasping for hair and clothes and anything to hold onto. Their desperate, heavy panting filled the nook, echoed off the walls and competed with the rush of the downpouring rain.

John had to pull back to breathe again within a few seconds. His head was growing dizzy with lust. Sherlock took the chance to cross his arms at the bottom of his t-shirt and pull it up and over his head. John licked his lips as he looked him over, reveling in the fact that he was being allowed this. He leaned in again and placed his open mouth against his throat. Sherlock gasped and then relaxed into it.

John moaned into the skin as he kissed it. His hand slowly trailed down Sherlock’s bare chest, down his stomach, his waist, and settled low on his hip. He then wriggled it in between their bodies to skim over the crotch of Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock gasped again and whimpered when he gave a light squeeze. His hips jerked forward, demanding more. He threw his head back against the wall as John kneaded with his hand and indulged in every fantasy he’d ever had about Sherlock’s neck. He licked at the skin, humming softly at the taste before introducing the slightest bit of teeth. Sherlock was positively melting in his arms, twisting his head this way and that like he couldn’t handle the sensations.

After planting two hard, biting kisses at the base of his throat, he returned to his mouth. He kissed him sweetly with every angle of his head, stole soft, sucking nibbles at his bottom lip while Sherlock received them with quivering breaths.

As though communicating telepathically, Sherlock leapt up to wrap his legs around John’s waist while John caught him about the hips. He carried him from the wall to the mattress and lowered them both. Once Sherlock was laid down, he attacked his belt buckle and tugged down his trousers. Sherlock did the rest of the work, kicking them off while John crawled back up to recapture his lips. Hands clutched at the hem of his t-shirt to pull it off, but John pinned his wrists down to stop him. He nipped harshly at Sherlock’s lips in retaliation. Hands wove into his hair as their hips ground against each other on purely carnal, animalistic instinct. John dragged his mouth down his torso, stopping to suck and nip at various spots on his chest and stomach. When he reached the top of his boxers, he pulled them down as his mouth continued his descent.

At this point, Sherlock was squirming so badly, John had to hold him down by the hips. His mouth watered getting his first look at what was underneath his boxers. Sherlock’s cock was straining red and leaking, standing gloriously against his stomach, practically begging for him. John pushed his thighs apart, licking his lips. Sherlock’s breathing grew more stuttered in anticipation. His stomach was quaking with rapid breaths and his arm was thrown over his eyes as he waited. It was a delicious sight. His own aching cock throbbed between his legs. Sherlock's body was a thing to be treasured and worshipped, and John planned on treating it exactly how it should be. 

He dove forward, unable to hold out any longer. The tangy taste filled his mouth as he moaned and hummed with pure contentment. He held Sherlock’s hips down to stop him from thrashing too much as he sipped experimentally at the leaking head. Sherlock whined impatiently and inched his thighs further apart, giving him access to what was below. It was an unexpected invitation, but John took it in stride. He pushed them even further apart and dipped down to mouth eagerly at his hole. At this, Sherlock’s breath quivered, and he let out a high-pitched cry. Each dripping wet swipe of John’s tongue was accompanied by a soft whine from deep inside him. The smell and taste of Sherlock encompassed him. His head was swarming and growing faint with pure carnal lust.

He knew it was unsanitary, and that a conversation was probably necessary before doing something like this. But he couldn’t help himself. He was brimming over with desperation with his face buried deep between Sherlock’s legs. He ate him out like he was starving for it. Soft, needy sounds escaped the back of his throat as he licked and kissed deep. Sherlock’s body was rolling uncontrollably. His cries grew more and more frantic as John licked in deliberate, firm, strokes.

“John,” came a breathy cry. John kissed his arse how he kissed his mouth - open mouth, wet tongue, and humming like it was a delicious treat. The thighs twitching on either side of his head only encouraged him to increase his efforts. But Sherlock’s hips were shaking. John knew he was close. Though he could’ve spent an eternity lying between Sherlock’s legs tasting him, he reluctantly pulled his mouth away and crawled back up.

This time, he didn’t stop Sherlock from pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. Nor did he resist when his trousers and pants were pulled down. He helped kick them as a long-fingered hand traveled took both their cocks in its grasp.

John hissed and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck. He was aching for it at this point. His hand joined Sherlock’s and together, they pulled harder and harder. They were both slick and leaking, almost ready to peak. The sounds created from their hands were bordering on obscene. John couldn’t stop his frantic noises, nor could Sherlock. It didn’t take long. Within minutes, hot, sticky, liquid was spurting between their bodies. John groaned into his skin while Sherlock inhaled in shuddering gasps.

When it was finished, they spent a long moment catching their breaths. John kissed his throat again, and sloppily smeared his mouth over his clavicle before rolling over onto his own side.  

His skin was slick with sweat. His chest heaved and his heart was beating madly in his ears. But his rest of his body was saturated with pleasure and pure satisfaction from the greatest sex he’d ever had in his life.

He didn’t look at Sherlock but could hear him breathing beside him. He knew they should talk to each other. It was polite etiquette after all. Nothing was ruder than falling asleep right after sex. But his body was so lethargic and spent, it was so much easier to just lie there on his back and listen to the rain pattering over the surrounding tarp. His eyelids drooped and couldn’t bring himself to fight it off. Beside him, he heard a shift in the mattress. He looked to the side and saw that Sherlock had rolled over. All he could see was a long, bony spine curled away from him and a head of tousled hair.

Within a few minutes, Sherlock’s breathing became deep and steady, and John knew he had fallen asleep. He tucked and arm comfortably behind his head and allowed his eyes to drift closed to the soothing rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY hope ya'll have seen StartUp... lol ;) 
> 
> I'm not the best with writing smutty scenes but I hope you guys liked it anyhow. John got what he wanted, and Sherlock finally caved :) 
> 
> As always, please leave a comment if you can! They always make my day :) Thanks for reading!


	7. Heightened Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drug use, murder, and mention of suicide in this chapter

John woke up to a mess of curls tickling his nose. He opened his eyes to find himself pressed close against Sherlock’s back with his arm rested atop his ribcage.

The pleasurable memories of last night came back to him in a frenzy. The excitement, the kissing, the sex. . . He smiled and nuzzled Sherlock’s curls. Looking down the length of his pale, naked form, he thanked whatever god was looking after him that he’d had a chance to know it as intimately as one could know a body.   

He rolled onto his back to let his body breathe from the heat trapped between them, but Sherlock instantly whined in his sleep and followed him, endearingly cozying back up under his chin. John’s heart pulsed with affection as he smiled again and pulled him in close.

Last night had been exactly what he’d needed to take the edge off of their dangerous, stressful lives. Just a night of carefree but much needed sex. Free of all the constraints and complications of a relationship. It’s not that what they had  _ wasn’t _ a relationship. It just wasn’t  _ that _ kind of relationship. He and Sherlock were partners and allies – they worked beautifully together. It only made sense that they’d be compatible in a sexual sense as well.

And surely the last thing someone like Sherlock would be interested in was proper dating and the like, especially in a time like this. John himself wasn’t in the best place to start something like that either. But that didn’t mean they had to deny themselves was what so easily available right in front of them. It was fine. What they had right now worked. It was perfect.

 

*********

 

Sherlock woke up on a warm, comfortable pillow. It took a moment before he realized the pillow was actually John. It was John whose arm was around his shoulders, and it was John who was gently caressing his bare shoulder. His eyes snapped open, and he scrambled back to his own side of the mattress.

“Hey, it’s okay,” came John’s sleepy voice. “I don’t mind.”

Sherlock’s heart spiked in his chest as the previous night came rushing back to him. The way he’d kissed John in his overexcitement. John’s tousled, swoopy fringe tickling his bare skin. How he’d made him arch and cry and feel more pleasure than he’d ever thought himself capable of feeling.

Red in the face, he cautiously looked back at him, only to a large pair of glimmering, cobalt eyes already fixed on him. 

“Good morning.”

Sherlock studied him in silence until John broke out into the cheekiest grin he’d ever seen in his life.

“Well? Was last night phenomenal or what?”

He blinked. His mouth stayed closed. He wasn’t used to being caught speechless.

“You gonna say something or you just gonna stare at me?” John asked. And Sherlock kicked himself for messing it up. Of course he’d mess this up.

The low rumble of John’s chuckle suddenly filled the nook. Instant relief filled him, and he couldn’t fight off the smile that tugged at his lips in response to John’s warm laughter.

“It was quite phenomenal,” he agreed.

“Come back here then.”

He scooted back over and resumed his position with his head on John’s chest – his natural scent was earthy, musky, a little sweaty.

“Truly,” John drawled in a voice still groggy from sleep. “You are spectacular.”

He smiled a bit, though he knew John couldn’t see it.

Last night he’d done something he didn’t normally do – he’d let go of his inhibitions and allowed himself to  _ feel. _  For once in his life, he’d given in and truly let himself experience intimacy in all its sensations. Whether or not that was a wise choice has yet to be determined. But when John had first returned his kiss, he’d realized that his feelings for him burned brighter than he’d ever meant to allow. He’d felt infatuation before. He knew what that was like. Usually, it ran the course of its short life span, fizzled out, and allowed him to move on with his life. He’d managed to convince himself that his fondness of John was like that – a small nuisance that would eventually fade away as long as he didn’t indulge in it. But as John had kissed him senseless against the wall last night, he knew this wouldn’t be like that. This was something else.

The power of what he felt scared him. It shook him to his core. And right now, in the clear light of day and clarity of mind, he wasn’t ready to face it. So instead, he kept his face tucked under John’s chin, where his expression couldn’t be seen, and memorized the steady pattern of his beating heart.

***

When Sherlock woke up from his late-morning snooze, John smiled sweetly and allowed him to untangle their bodies. Together, they got dressed in comfortable silence.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” John asked as he buttoned up his shirt. Sherlock nearly sighed in relief at the question – safe territory for discussion.

“The rendezvous we discovered last night isn’t until tomorrow. So, today we can investigate the other addresses we copied down.”

“I only wrote down a few.”

“Well, let’s see them.”

They flipped the notebook open. Two addresses were written above the rendezvous.

“The top one is the office building where Tony operates. We’ve already looked there.”

“What’s this one then?” John asked. “That’s a pretty busy part of town, no?”

“Maybe it’s where he works. Or another coverup.”

“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”

“That’s actually highly possible. But we can’t rule out any options, so I say we go for it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

John snapped the book shut and looked up at him. Sherlock searched his twinkling eyes and found nothing but unsullied glee. It pinched at his heart to see such unfiltered adoration aimed at him. He had to turn away. It was like looking into the sun.

***

It was late afternoon by the time they set out. The address led them to a busy café.  They stood outside, watching in confusion as people bustled in and out.

“Maybe it really wasn’t anything important then,” Sherlock suggested.

“Well, let’s stay a bit longer, just in case.”

With that, John grabbed them a table while Sherlock brought over two coffees.

“I didn’t know how you like it,” he said as he handed the creamed one to John.

“It looks fine. I – is that-? Is that straight black coffee?”

Sherlock pulled his own mug towards himself defensively. “It’s got two sugars in it.”

“You’re insane,” he said, and blew into his mug before taking a sip. His face instantly twisted into a pained cringe. “Oh, that’s bitter.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’ll wake me up.” He took another sip. “Now then. What’ve you got?”

Sherlock looked around to see where he could start deducing.

“There’s a suspicious looking man by the window on the phone with. . . his angry wife. Never mind. That’s useless. Woman behind you with a briefcase. Could be important. Oh. . . No, she’s just a lawyer. The young man and woman by the door are here on their first date. The couple behind them are about to break up.”

Sherlock pouted in frustration. None of these deductions were the slightest bit helpful. Though John seemed to be entertained by them.

“A first date, you say?” he asked, grinning cheekily at him.

“Not important.”

“But it’s interesting. Tell me more.” He leaned back into the chair, hands folded as he waited. Sherlock looked curiously at him before turning back to the couple.

“Their friends set them up on this blind date. What those friends didn’t know is that they’ve hooked up at a party before. The boy wants to hook up again, but the girl is cautious of where it could lead. I give it a few weeks. She’ll end it.”

They both watched the couple quietly. “What I don’t get is why he’s on a date if he’s only looking to hook up,” Sherlock said. “There are plenty of nightclubs around.”

“Maybe he wants her specifically.” Sherlock couldn’t look at John, though he could feel his eyes burning into him. “Tell me about the other couple.”

“She’s about to confess that she cheated on him with a one-night stand. What she doesn’t know is that he has three other girlfriends that he may or may not confess to in order to relieve her guilt. However this conversation goes, it’s ending in a break-up.”

“Jesus.”

“And the one-night stand was her boyfriend’s brother.”

John choked on his coffee trying to hold back his laughter. A small amount dribbled onto his chin, and Sherlock found himself snickering.

“Oi, shut it,” John said as he dabbed it away with a napkin. Their shared laughter waned, and they were left with silence.  

John was looking at him with that face that made his heart ache – that unabashed smile that made his face seem like it was glowing from within. As the moments passed, the smile slowly faded, and the twinkle in his eyes died out.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No, I mean. . .” He shifted a bit in his seat. “Were you okay this morning?” The remnants of Sherlock’s smile dropped clean off his face. “You were a bit quiet,” John added.

He felt himself stiffen at the question. He wasn’t ready for this conversation.  He wasn’t ready to face what was happening inside him. Not yet.

John set his coffee down and shifted again. “You know, we should probably talk about-”

“No, we shouldn’t.”

“We’re eventually going to have to ack-”

“We really don’t.” 

“Sherlock, we bloody - !” He lowered his voice and leaned forward onto the table. “We had sex. Alright? We did. I don’t know why you’re so opposed being an adult about it.”

Sherlock held John’s eye contact but kept his lips stubbornly pursed.

“Fine. Don’t talk. I just want you to know that it’s all fine by me.” Something twisted in Sherlock’s stomach as John casually leaned back in his seat. “I’m not opposed it happening again. Are you?”

Sherlock’s neck suddenly seemed so stiff he could hardly move it. With great effort, he managed single shake of his head.

“Good. Then nothing else between us has to change. It’s fine.”

It was like he’d been plunged deep into ice water. He felt like a stone was lodged in his throat.  John sipped at his coffee unknowingly, looking around the café as though he hadn’t just made him feel smaller than he’d ever felt in his life.

_ But what if I wanted something between us to change _ .

It was the first time he’d ever fully articulated the thought. And it hurt like a knife twisting in his heart that John didn’t want the same thing.

Sherlock looked down at his hands around his coffee mug. His fingers were ghostly white from how tightly he was holding it.

With every ounce of effort he could muster, he swallowed down his crushed, unspoken hopes and did what he always did when he was hurt - pushed it aside and re-assembled his exterior shield.

With a quick clearing of his throat and loosening of his muscles, he decided he was past it.  

“30-year-old female at the register. She’s here to meet her unsupportive ex-husband, whom she left so she could finish her law degree. He’s going to beg for her back, but she’s already met someone new.”

Across the table, John kept his eyes fixed somewhere to their left, though the small smile playing at his lips showed that he heard his every word.

***

They finished off their coffees and had no luck with any deductions. Sherlock suggested that they look around the back for any signs of the café being used as a front for other operations.

The back alley was dark, damp, and filthy. The pungent stench from the dumpster filled the air. Litter was scattered along the gravel and Sherlock even thought he saw a rat scurry around the corner.

John scrunched his nose and coughed at the smell. “Doesn’t seem like-”

“Shush,” Sherlock said, and pulled him closer to the wall.

The voice of a man could be heard around the corner. But only one. It seemed like he was in the midst of an intense phone conversation.

“Well, I just don’t see how that applies to this situation,” he was saying. His long shadow leaked into the alley. “Maybe you shouldn’t be working for me then.”

Sherlock and John raised their eyebrows at each other. The man’s voice was unfamiliar, but perhaps he was a new player in the game.

“Then I expect to see you here at 8 a.m. tomorrow, sharp. It better be the best day’s work I’ve ever seen from you, understand? One more customer complaint like that, and you’re out.”

Sherlock slumped in defeat, and John gave him a sympathetic look. He was probably just the manager of the café, nothing more nothing less. It was looking like this outing really was a waste of time.

The manager hung up the phone and started walking back to the alley.

“Shit,” Sherlock breathed. They couldn’t be caught here. No one had any business being in this alley except for employees. A single look at John told him he was thinking the same thing. There was no time to make it back to the door, and there was nowhere to hide until the man went back inside.

John stood in front of him with a look of desperation. In one swift move, he pulled him in and crushed his lips against his. Sherlock froze for a single moment, but quickly caught on and responded.

The manager came around the corner and halted in his steps. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he said and backed out of the alley to use the front entrance instead.

When he left, Sherlock felt John smile and chuckle triumphantly against his lips. But instead of breaking apart, he angled his head and kissed him again. This time, it was a bit tamer, more experimental. It was the first time they’d kissed since last night, and was somehow a firmer acknowledgement of what was happening between them than the conversation they’d had. It twisted Sherlock’s insides. It wasn’t the same as before. There was a cage around his heart, and this time, John’s touch couldn’t melt it away. 

“John,” he mumbled through the kiss. John leaned further into him. “John,” he repeated, and tugged away from the mouth sucking at his lips. “I’d like to go home,” he said.

John pulled away to look him in the eyes. His gaze was soft and understanding, and just a tad mischievous. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said with a playful smile.

Sherlock didn’t protest as John interlocked their fingers and walked him out of the alley, though he knew exactly how his words had been misinterpreted. There were several points on the way home that he thought to bring it up, but he remained quiet. They could deal with it back at home. But for now, he felt it was his responsibility to avoid leading him on any more. With a few shakes, he unlocked their joined hands. In the corner of his eye, he saw John look at him curiously, but he kept his own eyes fixed ahead. Twice, John tried to take his hand again and only got the message when Sherlock put both of his in his pockets.

At some point in the journey, John walked ahead of him, seemingly a little affronted. Sherlock didn’t blame him. He remained behind and let John get far ahead of him, watching the slight stomp in his step and frustrated hunch of his shoulders. When they reached home, John turned into the alley first. As soon as he disappeared into it, Sherlock heard an unexpected thud and a light grunt.

He picked up his pace, thinking John might have fallen or tripped. He turned the corner and froze with a gasp.

A large man had John pinned to the wall by his throat. Sherlock had never seen him before, but he was scowling at John as if he wanted to rip his head off. John scratched at his arms and twisted his head to breathe.

“Sherlock, go,” he grunted when he saw him standing in the mouth of the alley. “Run!”

_ Like hell, _ he thought.

“Sherlock, eh?” the man said. “Nice to finally meet you. Though I must say, you’ve been a right pain in my arse the last few days. It’s hard to catch this one alone for even a moment.” He squeezed John’s throat tighter in emphasis.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. The man was larger than both of them. He didn’t know what his intentions were. To kill John? To kidnap him? To threaten him? If he made a single move, there was no saying if he would just snap John’s neck.

But John, luckily, kept his wits about him. While his attacker was distracted, he gripped his wrist exactly as Sherlock had taught him, dislodged his chokehold, and locked it behind his back.

Sherlock took the opportunity to lunge forward and help restrain him. It was difficult; the man was obviously skilled in combat. John took his knife out, but the attacker seemed prepared for it and stopped his wrist. All three of them ended up grappling for control of John’s knife wielding hand. He kicked the man away, and before they could pin him down again, he bolted toward the mouth of the alley and was gone as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Leave him,” John said, rubbing his throat. 

“Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He turned his back and busied himself putting his knife away. After a moment of careful consideration, Sherlock marched up and forcibly turned him around by the shoulder.

“It obviously does matter.”

“Leave it alone, Sherlock.”

But Sherlock kept him crowded against the wall. “This man clearly has ill intent towards you.”

“Shut up.”

“If this is something we need to -”

“I said drop it, alright?!”

The force of his voice made him stumble back a step. He furrowed his brows at John’s tone. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of a glare like that from him in quite some time. For a moment, he thought John was going to scold him, or perhaps get angrier. But John only looked him up and down with a resigned sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It was not what Sherlock was expecting to hear. “You alright?” He knew he was not only asking about the fight. He was asking about what had happened earlier behind the café.

“Fine,” he said.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

John looked him over again, much calmer now. He stepped forward and fiddled with Sherlock’s collar, looking anywhere except his eyes. Sherlock wanted to stop him, but he also didn’t want to at all.

“He’s just. . . someone I knew. From before. You don’t need to worry about him,” John said. 

Some silence passed between them, where John kept his head bowed toward the ground and Sherlock just watched him.  Then, John rose on his toes and searched his eyes for a moment. He then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. It was both an apology and a thank you rolled into one.  Each moment their lips stayed in contact grated Sherlock’s bleeding heart to pieces, but he found himself kissing back. It was like his brain had shut off and his body had taken over against his will. He hurt, he  _ ached _ , with every kiss he gave and received, but didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

When he didn’t protest, John backed himself up against the wall and pulled him in by his belt buckle. He stumbled forward and caught himself with both hands on his sturdy chest. John grinned and coaxed him in for another kiss with a hand in his curls.

Kissing John seemed to calm the voices in his brain and give him something else to focus on. Kissing John quenched a thirst he didn’t know he had. It steadied and dizzied him at the same time, grounded and shook him. Kissing John was what he liked and what he wanted. So why was he so furious with himself for doing it? He knew what this was for John. And he knew what it was to him. And he knew that those two things were not the same.

He should really put a stop to this, he thought. Protect his heart. It was dangerous to let this continue, knowing he couldn’t separate sex with feelings like most of the general population seemed to be able to. Letting this . . .  _ thing  _ they had evolve could only lead to a slow burning self-destruction. John would become more deeply etched into his heart with every kiss they shared, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Okay?” John murmured against his mouth as his hands skimmed over his waist.

And what Sherlock realized, as their lips swept over each other in tender harmony, was that he’d let John Watson break his heart a thousand times if it meant he could experience this with him just a little bit longer.

Sherlock hummed and nodded, deepening the kiss.

“God yes,” John breathed and began untucking his shirt from his trousers so he could dip under the hem. Sherlock shook with desperation at the feeling of those hands on his bare skin again. He leaned his head back and sighed gratefully as John began sucking at his neck. Their hips ground together below. A hand coaxed his head to the side, and he followed it to allow John more access to his skin. His legs parted to allow the nudging knee down below to wedge in between them, giving them both something to grind against.

Suddenly, he was whirled around and pressed against the wall. John’s mouth remained latched to his neck and his knee between his thighs. His first two buttons were suddenly undone, and his clavicles were being traced with a tongue. John groaned with primitive desire and rucked his shirt up as high as it would go. Sherlock obediently held it up in place as John bent to nip at each of his nipples. The sensations were electrifying. The sucking sounds created were bordering on obscene. Fingers pinched and plucked at the raised little nubs, and he gasped with shameless need. John descended his body, kissing down his sternum and belly. Sherlock squirmed from the slightly ticklish sensations as he kept kissing his stomach, pressing into the soft skin, licking his navel. At the same time, he got to work on his belt. When the clasp and zip were open, he looked back up with raw desire igniting his eyes. Sherlock’s knees nearly buckled at the sight. John smiled and stood back up, and Sherlock gasped at the hand that suddenly plunged down his open trousers and groped shamelessly at his cock.

“Yeah?” John asked, burying his face in his neck once more and flicking his tongue out repeatedly. Sherlock squirmed at the hot breath he felt there and nodded.

“Come on then,” he muttered encouragingly as he worked his hand inside his boxers. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his hips roll in time with the skilled fingers squeezing and fondling every inch of him. John’s tongue on his neck was like a sensuous flame licking at his skin. His breath started to hitch. His hips jerked. With a few final, powerful strokes, he burst in his pants, filling them with hot, liquid stripes. 

John released his neck and they kissed like wild, ravenous animals. When Sherlock found a moment to break, he slid down the brick wall to his knees and attacked John’s belt buckle.

“You don’t have to do that,” John said breathlessly, but at the same time ran his fingers through his hair in appreciation.

“I want to,” Sherlock said, and pulled his jeans and pants down.

It was his first proper, close look at John’s cock, and it was magnificent. His mouth watered at the sight of it standing boldly against his lower stomach. John used his thumbs to push his bangs out of his face, and he dove forward to take the head in his mouth with a primal groan. John was too large for him to take in completely, so he used his hand for the base and bobbed down so his mouth could meet his fist in the middle. John made a sound of near agony. His fingers tightened in his hair.

Sherlock made soft sounds of desperation as he sucked, using his tongue everywhere, tasting everything. He slurped at the wetness, stretched his lips as far down as they could go.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” came a breathy whisper above him. “Just look at you.”

Strong hands cupped his face tenderly. The praise only made Sherlock increase his efforts. He was so eager to please, to show John what he could do. He focused in on the head, dipping his tongue in the slit and lapping all around. His lips closed around it and pressed sloppy, wet kisses at every angle. His hand kept working the shaft, and within a few minutes, John was coming down his throat. He swallowed every drop until it was finished. His own breath came in exhausted pants when he released John’s cock from his mouth, and suddenly, he was drained of all energy.

“Beautiful, Sherlock,” John groaned huskily as he helped him up. “Absolutely beautiful. Let’s get you to bed now.”

He let John guide him to the mattress, where they laid down together. John helped him get his soiled pants off and then spooned up behind him and nuzzled his nose into his curls. Sherlock was grateful for their position; he could wipe away the two tears in the corners of eyes in private before falling asleep, hating himself just a little.

***

When he woke up several hours later, his body felt distinctly colder than it was when he’d gone to sleep.

Looking over his shoulder he realized that he was alone on the mattress. Alone in the nook, in fact. The sky was pitch dark and the empty silence around him seemed cold and unnatural.

“John?” he whispered, as if he’d come creeping around a corner. Nothing happened. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his face. After waking up without John so many times, he wasn’t worried. He knew he was fine. He’d be back.  But for the moment, that left Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

He’d just had sex with John for the second time. And he knew he’d easily do it again if the opportunity arose. It was that fact that made him burn in self-loathing.  Tears welled in his eyes again, and he blinked them away. What choice did he have in the situation? Tell John the truth about how he feels and risk him leaving? John couldn’t leave. Sherlock didn’t know what he’d do if he left. He couldn’t go back to living without him. He needed him.

But John didn’t need him.  

He dug his hands into his hair. He was feeling too much. Too many voices in his head. It had to stop - he had to stop them. A streak of water ran down his cheeks. A scream rose in his throat but all that came out was a gross sob cracking through his voice.

 

**********

 

John had spent a long time watching Sherlock sleep. He laid there beside him, resting his cheek in his propped up hand, softly brushing his finger over his rising and falling chest. When awake, Sherlock was an unmatchable force, a whirlwind of brilliance and charisma. Asleep, he turned into something else entirely. The total relaxation of all muscles in his face took at least ten years off his age. A single curl dangled over his forehead. His eyes flickered behind his eyelids. John only wished he could be given insight to what that brilliant mind was dreaming up.

He smiled as he looked over Sherlock’s face and his chest rising and falling evenly under his hand. He didn’t want to leave. If it was up to him, he’d stay here all night memorizing every detail of Sherlock’s sleeping form. But he knew what he had to do. He gently brushed the stray curl off Sherlock’s forehead and leaned down.

“I’ve got to go, l-” He stopped himself from calling Sherlock “love," wondering for a moment why it had felt so natural on his lips.

“I need to take care of something. I’ll be back soon,” he whispered. He leaned forward and pressed a parting kiss to Sherlock’s warm, pliant lips, then another one to his cheekbone. He took one last look at him, redressed himself, grabbed his gun, and slipped under the hanging sheets.

***

John had never felt like such an outsider entering Mary’s flat. The hallway was dark and unusually silent, but he could feel the lurking presence of someone else hidden in the shadows. The kitchen light was on, he noticed. He approached cautiously, hand outstretched with his gun.

In the kitchen, there was only an open laptop on the table. Nothing else out of the ordinary. He lowered his gun and turned it to face him. Mary’s face was displayed wide on the screen.

“Hello, John,” she said. She was somewhere indeterminable. Clearly outdoors and sunny, but the terrain could have been a number of places. She was dressed in travel clothes with a duffel bag on her shoulder.

“Mary.”

“Took you long enough,” she said. “We’ve been waiting here a while.”

“We?”

The hairs on the back of his neck raised. Before he could turn around, the unmistakable, cool metal of a gun barrel was pressed to the back of his head. He stiffened and put his hands up, knowing already who was behind him.

Mary shook her head at him on the screen. “Did you really think I’d just let you walk away from here freely?”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You should’ve noticed Eli following after you returned to London. Really John, I’m surprised at your carelessness.”

A familiar voice piped up behind him. “Can you blame him? He was too busy tapping that posh bloke’s arse.”

Eli’s jeering snicker made John’s blood curdle. Mary smirked mockingly.

“Whatever you think of me John, just remember that when you were working for me, you at least had a roof over your head and money you didn’t have to steal.”

“Whatever I think of you,” he repeated with a cold bark of laughter. “You’re a manipulative liar. It’s not what I think. It’s what you are.”

Mary continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But I suppose, I can’t give you what a man can, can I?”

John could feel the twisted scowl on his face and made no attempt to mellow it. With a deep breath, he diverted the conversation away from Sherlock.

“Does Sally know?” It was something he’d been wondering since he left, but never dwelled on.

“Sally only knew what she had to. Like you. But unfortunately, she left us soon after you did.”

John felt a brief spike of alarm at the way she spoke of her in past tense.

“I’ve decided to let her feel safe for the time being,” Mary continued. “But as soon as we leave, Eli will take care of her.”

The momentary swell of pride John had felt for his ex-colleague was instantly replaced with cold terror. “You’re going to kill-? Hang on, what do you mean leave?”

Mary smiled sadly at him. “Unfortunately, an ex-employee of mine has compromised my identity for money. Dangerous people are out to kill me, and I need to get away.”

“You’re leaving England?”

“Yes. New name and all. And I want you to come with me.”

John nearly laughed in bewilderment.

“I’ve packed your things already. They’re waiting for you back at your flat.”

“Hold on. Back up.”

“John, look. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. Yes, I lied to you. And yes, you quit because you were angry with me and allowed your emotions to lead you, as always. But you were a valuable worker, and I could use your skills where I’m headed. If you agree, I’ll tell you where to meet me, and we’ll leave together. Just the two of us.”

John’s head was spinning with bewilderment. Mary was off her rocker thinking he’d ever want to work with her again.

“What about Eli?” he asked.

“Eli’s staying behind. I’m letting him take over my practice here. He’s free to rehire whoever he wants. I know you two didn’t get along the greatest. But if you come with me, you’ll never have to see him again. Come on, John. Be reasonable. I have money. You’ll have a proper job. A home. Food. A bed every night.”

John shook his head. He stepped closer to the kitchen table and pointed a stiff finger at the screen.

“I’d rather starve on the streets next to him than ever work for you again,” he said coldly.

In a second flat, Mary’s eyes turned from exasperated to vicious.  She looked back at Eli over his shoulder and gave him a single nod.

John heard the bullet click into the chamber of the gun. Lightning fast instincts kicked in, and he whirled around and knocked it away from his head. A scuffle broke out, wherein one of Eli’s teeth was knocked out and John’s head was slammed into the countertop. Eli was bigger and stronger than him, but John was faster, smarter, and more skilled. He ducked under every blow and side-stepped his attempts to pin him. He grabbed the gun-wielding hand and twisted it back in a perfect imitation of Sherlock’s arm lock.

While Eli was pinned and defenseless, John took his own gun out of his jacket and shot him point blank in the back of the head. Red splotches dotted the counter and table. When Eli slumped to the ground, dark blood pooled out onto the clean, tile floor.

Panting, John tucked his gun away and looked back to the screen. Mary had disconnected. He wondered briefly if he could somehow track her location with the coded history of the video call and go after her. But before the thought had even finished forming, he knew he wouldn’t do it. Mary was someone else’s problem to deal with now. If the people after her tracked her down, fantastic. If they failed and Mary successfully established a new life in a foreign land, he really couldn’t give less of a shit. And with Eli dead and her fleeing the country, there was nothing she could do to him now. It was over, and his only thought was “good fucking riddance.”

He shook out his nerves and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He crouched over Eli’s dead body and fished in his pockets for any loose cash he could take with him. With one last look at the blood-stained kitchen and corpse on the ground, he left the flat, never to return.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and began the walk back to the alley. It disturbed him to think of Mary breaking into his vacant flat and packing his things for him on the assumption he would have gone with her. Just the thought of her running her fingers all over his possessions disgusted him.

But John then perked at the realization that he could safely live in his flat again, now that no one was coming after him anymore. Thank goodness for that. As adventurous as it was, he had not enjoyed the overall experience of being homeless.

Sherlock could move in too. It could be great for both of them.

He picked up his pace thinking of Sherlock, sleeping peacefully back at the nook, blissfully unaware of everything that had just changed for them both. But John had made the decision. He would tell him everything now. Sherlock deserved at least that much.

John thought with a smile that he’d just given up a life of money, action, and international travel not because he wanted to stay sleeping in an unprotected, dirty alley every night, or even because he felt particularly passionate about stopping Evans’ and his men. He’d refused because of Sherlock. He wouldn’t have left him behind if Mary had offered him a palace and a million pounds. They were in this together now, and he was prepared to own that.

Suddenly, John was desperate to be back home with Sherlock, to wake him up and tell him the exciting news. He wanted nothing more than to see the look on his face when he told him they didn’t have to sleep outside anymore. Before he knew it, he was jogging down the alley and ducking under the sheets.

What he saw made him halt in his tracks.

Sherlock was curled up on the floor, not the mattress. The curve of his back was awkward and unnatural. It wasn’t until he saw the needle lying beside his arm that he felt his heart drop into his stomach. He didn’t want to believe was his eyes were telling him. He blinked several times, hoping each time that he’d see something different.

“What the. . .” he whispered as he dropped to his knees beside Sherlock. Vomit seemed to rise in his throat as he rolled him onto his back. Sherlock blinked up at him. His pupils were so small they were almost totally shrouded by the blue. It took several painful moments for recognition to spark in them.

“John,” he slurred.

Hot, roiling anger billowed over in his chest.  “What the HELL, Sherlock?!” he shouted. It seemed to have no effect on him.

John felt his face turn red hot as he chastised himself for not seeing the signs. Three years of med school and he didn’t notice that he was living with a junkie. The fury filled him, it collected in his throat, waiting to be released through his voice. But even if John were to shout again, he didn’t even know what he'd say.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes squinted, and two tears rolled down his face. “John,” he said again, sounding much more like himself this time. Something in John’s chest softened a bit. “I’m sorry.” His speech was slurred, but not unintelligible. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, crying more openly now. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Okay,” John said. He reached out and gathered Sherlock into his arms, glaring heatedly at the wall in front of him. “Okay, shh. It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but what else do you say to the addict sobbing for forgiveness in your lap?

He patted Sherlock’s shoulder in consolation and shook his head to himself.

“Just please don’t leave. I’m sorry. Don’t leave.”

“I won’t leave.”

“They all leave when they find out.”

“Who?”

Sherlock shivered in his arms. His words were muffled a bit from the way his face was mashed into his lap, but John could still understand. “They wanted to put me away somewhere until I got better. I didn’t want to go. They wouldn’t speak to me. And Mycroft. The way he looked at me. . .”

John didn’t know who this Mycroft was, but he could only assume Sherlock was talking about his family.

“I ran away.”

“I know. You told me.”

“I didn’t want their help. But you. I wanted to stop for you. I tried to be good for you. I’m so sorry.”

John rubbed his back again, though he didn’t know what to say. Sherlock sniffled and turned his face so he could speak better.

“I couldn’t stand to see that kind of disappointment – that  _ repulsion _ in your eyes. I wouldn’t be able to live with it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I wouldn’t, though. I’d kill myself.”

Hearing those words, the raw honesty in them, made John’s mouth go dry. His blood seemed to turn to ice and for a moment, he couldn’t respond.

“You know my sister Harry?” he started gently, feeling as though he was walking on eggshells. “You know she had a drinking problem. My family couldn’t stand it. They were ashamed of her. I was a little bit too, if I’m honest. I expected better. But I still took care of her. Because I loved her. And that’s what you do when you care about someone.”

Sherlock rolled in his lap until he was looking up into John’s eyes. The bloodshot veins and tiny slits of his pupils made John’s insides squirm and twist.

“Do you love me?” Sherlock asked.

The words made all other thoughts in his head screech to a halt. It felt like he'd been exposed by an unwanted spotlight. Sherlock just blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. It killed him knowing that he probably had no idea what he’d just asked him.

He opened his mouth to answer but his tongue just caught in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to answer. Why couldn’t he say answer? Sherlock had become his friend. Of course he loved his friend. It was a simple thing to say. 

His mouth had gone dry again and he felt like the entire city could hear his heart pounding away inside him. John swallowed and cleared his throat.

“I – I’m not – you’re not yourself right now, Sherlock,” he said. “Let’s get you somewhere warm. Can you stand?”

With great effort, he guided him to his feet. Sherlock instantly latched onto him like an octopus, clinging to him desperately.

Step by step, John walked him out of the alley.

***

When John had first brought Sherlock to his flat all those weeks ago to patch up his wound, he never thought they’d return like this – in the dead of the night with Sherlock nearly unconscious and slumped over his body.  After he dropped him onto the bed, he removed his shoes for him, then his shirt, then tucked the blanket up to his chin. Still, he could see the shakes and shivers of his body underneath the covers.

John turned to adjust the heat, but a limp hand flopped out and latched onto his sleeve.

“Stay,” came a muffled grunt. So John laid himself on the other side of the bed, propped up on his elbow, and allowed Sherlock to curl up to him. “Can’t lose you.”

John found himself softly brushing his fingers through his hair. The sleeping face mashed into his pillow looked so soft and youthful. It seemed impossible that if those eyelids were to open, he’d see the red veins and constricted pupils that could only come from heroin.  Still, he caressed his head and ran his knuckles down his cheek, adoringly, protectively. Lovingly? Did he love Sherlock?

No. There was no use fixating over a ridiculous question that Sherlock had asked when his brain was muddled with an excess of endorphins. He was mumbling all kinds of jumbled nonsense back in the alley, and said so many things he probably didn't mean to say. On top of that, it seemed like Sherlock had been on his own for a long time. His question was probably just his drugged-up way of asking if John really cared for him. Which, of course, the answer was yes. That much should be clear to him in the morning when he wakes up in his bed. Besides, what would it matter if John did supposedly love him? What would someone like Sherlock want to do with someone like him in the long run? Sherlock was so far out of his league it was almost unbelievable that they'd even struck up a partnership at all.

So that was that, then, John thought. There was nothing more to read into anything Sherlock had said. With a shake of his head he decided to forget it and go to sleep. Before getting himself comfortable in the bed, he looked over Sherlock's sleeping face once more. With a careful hand, he tenderly removed a stray curl from his forehead. 

“I'm not like you,” came a sleepy mumble. John froze for a second. He thought Sherlock had fallen asleep, but his eyes were slit open and looking right at him.

“What?” he asked, petting softly over his curls again.

"Can't do this."

"Do what?"

“This,” Sherlock said. John knew it was supposed to sound definitive, but the effect was lost in his slurred drowsiness. “I can’t do these . . . things and not  _ feel. _ Not like you.”

John’s hand froze in his hair.  Sherlock wasn’t making sense, but he had an idea he knew what he was talking about.

That last sentence in particular shattered his heart to pieces. The very idea that Sherlock thought he didn't care about what was between them, this tiny little insight to what Sherlock thought of him - it was appalling. It was horrifying. He felt like a monster.

John stared down at him, ashamed and utterly speechless. Sherlock didn’t break eye contact for a single moment. Those sleepy, bloodshot eyes tore into him accusingly. John closed his gaping mouth and swallowed the thick lump in his throat. Without a word, he flipped over and rolled far to the other side of the bed. He laid there awake for hours, his distraught eyes remaining wide open in silent anguish.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that update took so freaking long!! You guys know my excuses by now. But one more month of this hellish schedule and I'll be free. 
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter! As always, please comment if you can! I love hearing your thoughts!


	8. Rats and Treacherous Schemes

_ Sherlock inched his way between Janine and Evans. His hands were out in front of him in an attempt to diffuse the situation. _

_ “Alright. Just calm down. I’ll take her upstairs and talk to her, okay?” he said. _

_ Evans’ ferocious glare left Janine and instead fixed on him, but that was alright; all Sherlock wanted was to divert the attention away from Janine before something horrible happened. He risked a glance at her, and she quickly averted her eyes. He knew that look; she hated that she’d gotten herself in trouble and needed him to intervene. It made her feel weak, and Sherlock knew there was nothing she hated more than that.   _

_ “And why should I let her go, hm?” Evans asked. _

_ “I’ll do anything. Please.” _

_ Evan considered him for a moment before his lips curled up into a malicious grin. He looked back to Janine, suddenly much calmer. _

_ “Alright. Go on then. Get out of here,” he said. _

_ Both Sherlock and Janine paused at the sudden change in his attitude. But Sherlock felt that the situation had calmed enough that it was safe to move, so he turned to the door. _

_ It happened faster than the quick strikes of the pulse in his neck – Janine took one step, and Evans whipped his gun out of his belt and fired. The gun shot split Sherlock’s ears and left them ringing after the echoes died out. For several long moments, he stood frozen at the door, unable to turn around and face what he knew he would see. _

_ When he did turn, he saw Janine standing with a hand on her stomach. A dark circle was spreading around it. Blood gushed through the material and onto her fingers. With a final, helpless look back at him, she dropped to her knees and collapsed to the floor. _

Sherlock woke up drenched in a cold sweat with a scream caught in his throat. His hand flew up to his chest only to find it completely bare. Why wasn’t he wearing a shirt? What was he doing with a plush comforter on top of him instead of his usual blanket? Where was he? He looked to his left and saw a sleeping form facing away from him. John. John was here. Sherlock was hardly conscious and didn’t know where he was, but if John was here, then everything was okay.  He allowed himself to relax back into the pillow. Before he knew it, his eyes were drooping closed again. . . 

_ Redbeard’s long ears flopped up and down as he ran up to him in an excited little bounce. Sherlock crouched down to accept his greeting of a nuzzle and playful lick to the face. Then, all of a sudden, Redbeard was an old dog, limp and dead in his arms. How could this be? Only a moment ago, he was a puppy. Sherlock held him close as though he could keep his life contained in his small, fragile body if he held on tight enough. Then suddenly, Redbeard was Janine, dead and bleeding in his arms. “No,” he whimpered as tears began to well. He put his hand on her gushing stomach to try to stop the blood flow, but it was too late. Then, Janine was John. His throat was purple and bruised from where a large, unfamiliar man had strangled him. “No, no, no,” Sherlock sobbed. He curled over John’s body as a garbled mess of words tumbled from his lips. “I need you, John,” he babbled. “Don’t leave. I need you.” John, Janine, Redbeard. He’d loved and cared for all of them in their own way, and they had loved him. But he’d failed to protect them, and terrible things happened as a result. John vanished in his arms like thin mist, leaving him curled over with his arms clutching his own body. _

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and immediately snapped shut due to the overwhelming light that flooded into his sight. When he rolled over and peeked again, he realized he was not on his mattress. He was in a bed. And there was no chilly breeze nipping at his skin - there were four walls around him and actual ceiling up ahead. He was warm. Actually warm. And the mattress he was sleeping on. It was elevated. A proper bed.

He looked around and saw an unfamiliar bedroom. But the door was half-open, and looking through it, he could see John standing at the kitchen stove with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. John slid whatever he’d just cooked onto two separate plates and glanced over his shoulder into the bedroom.

“Oh. You’re awake,” he said.

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his forehead and groaned, trying to make sense of everything.

“It’s okay,” John said, entering the room and sitting next to him on the bed. “We have a lot to talk about.”

His voice was light, but his expression was stern.

“What happened last night?”

“Last night, I ran out to take care of something important. And I came back to find you nearly unconscious and high as a kite.”

It all came flooding back. The way he woke up and started thinking about John. How he couldn’t stand the ache in his body anymore and, against his better judgement, had reached for the needle tucked deep into one of his boxes.Then rest was a fuzzy haze, but he could fill in the blanks himself. Shame burned inside him, and he wanted nothing more than to hide from John’s stern, focused eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Sherlock knew he couldn’t lie about this. Not to John’s face. He kept his eyes down and gave a weak shake of his head. In response, he heard a disappointed sigh and a shift in the bed.

“But now you know,” Sherlock said.

“Now I know.” A brief paused ensued. “And it won’t happen again,” John added. It wasn’t a question or a request. It was an order. Sherlock bowed his head in acknowledgement. His eyes then landed on the raw and bruised skin on John’s knuckles – marks that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.

“John. You’re hurt,” he said quietly. 

He hesitantly reached out to the injured hand, but stopped right before touching his skin. John looked down at his hands and sighed so heavily that his shoulders dropped on the exhale.

“I think there ought to be no more secrets between us. Don’t you think?” Sherlock nodded sheepishly. John gave a weak half-smile and continued. “Good. Well, I suppose I need to come clean too then.” He braced himself with a deep deep breath. “Remember that man that attacked me in the alley? His name was Eli. He worked for Mary Morstan.”

John proceeded to tell him all about Mary and his old job, how she lied to him about everything for years. He told him how Eli had followed him since he left, and finally had an opportunity to strike the other night. How John had then snuck back to Mary’s flat to end things once and for all and killed Eli in self-defense. How Mary fled the country and couldn’t come back without putting her own life in danger, so they didn’t have to worry about her anymore. Sherlock listened to it all with wide open eyes. When he was finished, he cautiously took John’s hand and rubbed his thumbs over his reddened knuckles.

“So, no more secrets, then,” he said.

“No more secrets.”

After a moment, John gently pulled his hand back into his own lap. “Sherlock,” he started, with an entirely new tone. “Do you – is there anything else you want to talk about? From last night?”

Sherlock bunched his eyebrows in confusion. “Such as?”

“Such as, anything I might’ve said or . . .  _ you _ might’ve said . . .”

He raked his memory for anything else that had happened last night. But all he could remember was waking up alone, distraught with unwanted emotions, and sticking himself in the arm. After that, he remembered having a series of strange, hyper-realistic dreams where he’d said all sorts of things to John that he would never dare say in real life. Then he woke up in this bed.

“Nothing? There’s nothing at all you want to discuss?” John asked.

Sherlock kept silent and tilted his head in confusion. Suddenly, John stood abruptly from the bed. “I’m trying my best here, Sherlock. I really am. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said, taken aback by his frustration. “We discussed my unfortunate habit already. And I agreed it won’t happen again. What more is there to it?”

John stared long and hard at him. His lips pressed together in a thin line. That little dip at the corner of his jaw appeared, which only showed up when he was clenching his teeth tight together.

“Yeah. Alright then,” he said, though it was clearly not alright. With an angry sniff, he turned around and walked back to the kitchen.

“You coming to eat?” he called back to the bedroom. There was a certain tension to his voice that hadn’t been there before, and Sherlock was left completely at a loss as to what had happened in the last sixty seconds to cause this. Without a word, he slipped out of bed and joined him at the table in the kitchen. He picked at his eggs and pushed them around on his plate, all the while glancing up at John every now and then. John ate in stiff silence across from him, keeping his head bowed towards his breakfast the entire time. After a few minutes, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“So, the rendezvous,” he said cautiously, sticking to safe territory for conversation.

“Yup. Tonight, right?”

“Yes. Evans, Tony, and Sean are all meeting at 2 a.m. So, we have the whole day ahead of us.”

“Fantastic.”

Sherlock wondered if he was aware of the sarcastic bite to his voice.

“So . . . it seems that this is our last chance to collect any substantive information. If nothing comes out of eavesdropping, we’ll have hit a dead end. And I don’t know where we’d take things from there.”

John finally looked up at this. There was a certain weariness to his eyes, and Sherlock wondered if they were both thinking the same thing – what it meant for them if all failed tonight.

“I just think I should mention,” Sherlock said quickly. Might as well get this part over with. “If we do end up getting nothing tonight, I will certainly be out of your hair. Just say the word, and I’ll leave with no questions. If that’s what you want . . . Is that what you would want?”

John’s face was somewhere between shocked and horrified.

“God, Sherlock no! What did you think, I’d just kick you out on the streets?”

“No, well-”

“Of course you can stay here until you get yourself sorted.”

Sherlock pondered this. It went against every signal he’d picked up on that John was angry with him. But why would he invited him to stay if that was the case? 

“So, you’re not . . . angry?” he asked.

John sighed again, and Sherlock knew his intuition had been correct. John was upset with him.

“I’m not – no. It’s fine. I’m not angry with you,” he said as he rubbed down the side of his face tiredly. Obviously a lie, Sherlock thought. “And besides, we’re bound to drive each other up the wall sometimes, right? That doesn’t mean I’m going to kick you out on your arse and make you sleep outside again. I’m not going to do that. Okay?”

Sherlock searched his eyes and nodded once. The weariness on John’s face melted just a bit and made way for a small smile. Sherlock suddenly felt stupid for even asking. 

“Alright. Come on then. I’ll show you to the shower. I’m pretty sure both reek,” John said. 

He brought both of their plates to the sink with the ghosts of his smile still lingering on his face.Sherlock followed him to the bathroom, where there was a nice-sized tub underneath a shower head.

“I’ll get you some towels,” John said as he turned the water on and ducked back out the door.

Sherlock quickly stripped off his clothes. Once the water was hot enough, he stepped in the tub and he left the curtain open; he didn’t like being cooped up in such a small space with all the muggy air. He tipped his head back to wet his hair as the water ran soothingly down his body. The steam cleansed his pores - he breathed it in, feeling the heat of the vapor inside him. He parted his flattened bangs so he could see and helped himself to John’s shampoos – simple, neutral-scented, practical. Not his taste, but it had been so long since he’d had this simple luxury of a proper shower with proper products that he was hardly in a place to be picky. He poured some into his hand and scrubbed it into his scalp, already feeling a hundred times cleaner. He tilted his head back until he was looking up at the ceiling, simply indulging in letting the hot water run down his face and neck.

Suddenly, the door opened.

“Oh, god! Sorry,” John said in the doorway with an armful of towels.  

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said as he slicked his hair back, hardly paying attention to John.

“May I ask why you’re showering with the curtain open?”

“The steam feels suffocating.”

John flipped the bathroom fan on as aggressively as one could flip a switch.

“Hardly does anything while I’m still in here.”

John rolled his eyes and set the towels on the sink along with what looked like a change of clothes for him to borrow. Sherlock continued about his shower, but soon noticed that John wasn’t leaving. When he opened his eyes, he saw him standing frozen with his eyes fixed on his body. 

“Sherlock. . .”

He looked down at himself and realized what John was staring at. Throughout the course of their time on the streets, they had been in quite a few scuffles and backed into some dangerous corners. The evidence of all their physical encounters was laid out for them both to see – every bruise, cut, scar, and scab were all on display, more clearly than they had ever been. Without the darkness of night to cover them or cast a spell over all their imperfections, it looked like a horror show. Sherlock had never paid much attention to his body, but as the dirt and grime that had caked onto his skin slowly washed away, he realized he looked like a pale canvas marked with countless blotches of red, purple, and blue.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said as John came closer. “Honestly, it’s-”

“I need to treat some of these,” John said. “I can help you clean them off later, and then I want to cover them.”

Sherlock’s held his gaze. “You could just clean them now,” he said, with no room for misinterpretation in his voice. 

John stared into him as if trying to figure him out. Frustration passed over his face until finally, he shook his head in resignation and began unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock felt a small surge of triumph as he watched him strip. If John was still angry at him, this was certainly one way he could make amends.

John stepped in the tub and closed the curtains halfway, as a compromise between their preferences.

“Turn,” he said.

Sherlock faced the wall. A soapy hand soon ran down his back, went over his waist, then came up to rub soap into his shoulders and neck. Sherlock smiled in relief at the wonderful feeling of John’s hands on him. They gently maneuvered him until he and John were facing one another again. 

Sherlock graced him with a smile, but John didn’t even make eye contact as he continued cleaning his bruises and scrapes with careful fingers. His touch was methodical and precise. He looked at his naked body with such detached neutrality, it made Sherlock almost feel like a specimen being handled. A wave of unexpected self-consciousness hit, and he resisted curling in on himself as John inspected every bit of him.

John suddenly lowered himself to clean his legs. Sherlock looked down at him as his soapy hands rubbed up and down his thighs. The sight took him back to last night in the alley, when John had been on his knees just like this, kissing his stomach as he undid his belt. His body heated at the memory of the hot breath on his skin, the wet kisses, the desperation with which they’d touched one another. 

But John’s touch right now was anything but sensual. He simply finished cleaning him as quickly as possible, not lingering in any area. It was strange and a bit uncomfortable to have John’s hands on him in a way that should’ve felt intimate, but instead was cold and distant.

“Good?” John asked as he stood back up.

Sherlock looked into his dull, tired eyes. Their argument was still hanging in the air between them, only growing heavier with the heat of the steam.  Sherlock’s method of rekindling things between them had been an utter failure, but in a last desperate attempt to regain John’s favor, he took his chin in his hand and leaned in.

“Sherlock, stop,” John said in annoyance, and pulled away. “Is there anything else you want? Cause I need to shower, too.” 

Sherlock recoiled as if he’d been slapped. The rejection both pained and confused him in equal parts. He muttered a soft “no” and reached for the curtain. John waited patiently as he stepped out of the shower, slower than necessary, as though some part of him was waiting for an invitation back in. But the moment never came. Once he was out, John pulled the curtain all the way closed. Sherlock knew it was just for privacy, but it still stung like a cold shoulder.

 

**********

 

After John patched up both his and Sherlock’s wounds, they kept to themselves the rest of the day. They each took naps in the afternoon in preparation for their late night – at separate times, so they wouldn’t have to share the bed. 1:00 a.m. came before they knew it. They had an hour to get ready and walk to the address that Sean had written in his notebook.

The streets of London were quiet and mostly empty by the time they set out. It was pitch black except for the little light provided by streetlights. They walked side by side without a word. John felt like they’d entered some kind of unspoken, mutual agreement to not speak unless necessary. It was uncomfortable, but there was also something nice about being able to walk in silence. Rarely did he ever get a chance to see London like this. Quiet. Still. Like a moment frozen in time.

They walked until they reached their destination, which turned out to be a vacant lot. It seemed that a construction project had started there and then been abandoned. The lot was littered with unidentifiable scraps of plastic, metal, and garbage. There were massive heaps of cement and gravel scattered throughout as well. A few rats darted out of sight as they got closer, probably sensing the unwelcome human presence in their territory.  Sherlock ducked under a hole in the wired fence and held the torn flap up for John to come after him. Together, they hid behind one of the cement piles, careful to stay in the darkest areas in case anyone else was near. Sherlock checked his phone once they were seated.

“It’s 1:54,” he said.

It was a good few minutes, before they heard the light crunching of gravel. John peeked around the cement pile to see a tall, shadowed figure sitting on a stack of cinder blocks and lighting a cigarette. Although it was too dark to see him clearly, he could tell that the man was Tony.  

The only light came from a streetlight outside the fence and the burning orange tip of Tony’s cigarette. He inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke. Then, suddenly two other men emerged silently from the shadows– Sean and Victor. As the three of them came together, a couple of rats scurried away to steer clear of them. Tony silently offered Sean a cigarette, but he put his hands up in polite refusal. It was strange to see them together after investigating them separately. It was like they had existed in different planes in John’s head, and now those planes were converging.

Sean, Victor, and Tony waited silently, hardly even acknowledging one another. Then, slow, authoritative footsteps were heard from the other corner of the lot. Immediately, Tony leapt up, and both he and Sean straightened up as the fourth man approached them.  

John glanced to Sherlock. From the slight tensing of his jaw and nervous bob of his Adam’s apple, he could tell that Sherlock recognized this man. This was Mitchell Evans.

Evans stepped up into the thin streak of light, and John suppressed a gasp at his first sight of him. A wicked, mangled scar marred the left half of his face. It was as menacing as his soulless, grey eyes and twisted scowl. Somehow, after hearing so much about this man, John was not surprised one bit by how vicious he looked. His skin suddenly prickled, and he felt like the air had dropped about ten degrees.

Evans silently held his hand out, and Tony obediently handed him a lit cigarette.He took a long drag from it, and then spoke. 

“Why is it that you can’t follow simple instructions?” he asked. 

His voice was as rough and course as the gravel they stood on. Tony and Sean looked at each other in confusion.

“I don’t remember asking anyone to bring along their boyfriends,” he added, looking pointedly at Victor. After some uncomfortable shifting, Sean nudged Victor and quietly asked him to go wait in the car. Silence stretched out as Victor walked away from the group and disappeared under the hole in the fence. The whole time, Evans kept his eyes right on Sean, who seemed to visibly shrink under his gaze.

“How many times have I told you that what we’re doing here involves us three. No one else, unless I say so.”

“Right. I know. I’m sorry,” Sean said. “Um. He can still stay at the motel tomorrow, right?”

“Only if both of you can remember his place.”

Sean lowered his head respectfully. Sherlock, meanwhile, was raising up on his knees a bit to look over the top of the cement pile. John pulled him back down by his shirt and shot him a look that he hoped communicated the general sense of “Are you crazy?!”

“I can’t hear!” Sherlock hissed, trying again to rise up, but John held him down.

“Then listen harder!” he whispered back between his teeth. He had to admit, the voices were distant and hard to make out, but not completely indistinguishable. It wasn’t an ideal place for eavesdropping, but it would simply have to do.

“I don’t want to miss anything important,” Sherlock said.

“Quit it. Stay still.”

With a huff, he resettled in his place by John.

“Tony? An update on money?” Evans asked.

“Looks like we’re in good shape to pay everyone what we promised.”

“Good. And Sean, suppliers?”

“I’ve got most locked down.”

“I want all of them locked down. I told you that last time.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I-”

“You know, Sean, I’m wondering – just ballpark it – how many excuses are left in the book that you haven’t given me?”

As impossible as it seemed, Sean seemed to shrink even smaller. Next to him, Tony appeared anything but sympathetic; he even seemed to stand taller as his colleague was scolded. Evans let his words simmer for a moment before he spoke again.

“I have an update, too. I’ve been in contact with an arms smuggler who’s going to stay at the motel with us tomorrow.”

“I thought you said-” Sean started.

“It’s in our best interests to keep him close until it’s all over. He seems trustworthy, but we don’t want anyone to go blabbing at this stage.”

“So, he’s staying with us the whole time?” Tony asked.

“He’s essential to our plan. Yes.”

Sean and Tony looked at each other skeptically. Next to John, Sherlock inched forward until he was peering around the side of the cement heap. He was dangerously close to being visible. John tugged on his sleeve to get him to come back, but was waved off.

“One of you needs to pick him up here and bring him back to the motel. I told him to be here at 10.” Evans said.

“What’s his name?” Tony asked.

“Phil Reese.”

“What does he look like?”

“I haven’t met him in person yet. All of our communication has been over the phone.”

“So how will we know who he is?” 

“How many people do you think will be waiting at an empty construction site for a big, black van to pick them up at 10 in the morning, Sean?”

Tony glanced to Sean as he slumped again. There was a brief lull in the conversation, and Sherlock took the opportunity to dart out from behind the pile and crouch behind a portable toilet that was a bit closer. John nearly choked on his own breath trying to contain his shout.

“Did you hear something?” Evans asked, looking back in their general direction. John quickly ducked and prayed that Sherlock was smart enough to do the same. His heart hammered in his chest as the seconds ticked by. Finally, Evans turned back to his men. John peeked around the corner and tried to glare at Sherlock, but he didn’t even glance back at him.

“Okay, a brief rundown of how everything’s going to go once we all get there,” Evans started.  

John saw Sherlock looking around the side of the portable toilet. There was a small pile of scraps up ahead – even closer to where the meeting was taking place. John could tell from his crouched position that he was preparing for another opportunity to run forward. His chest boiled with anger at his stupidity and recklessness - that pile was nowhere near big enough to hide him. Sherlock inched forward, away from the toilet. He was now completely visible to anyone who looked back. John frantically waved his arms, though he now felt like Sherlock was deliberately avoiding him.

He crept onward, and suddenly a loud clank rang out into the silence of the lot. Sherlock looked down at the piece of metal he’d stepped on and then nearly somersaulted back behind the portable toilet.

Evans, Tony, and Sean’s heads all snapped back towards them. John ducked down again to hide himself.  _ God fucking dammit, Sherlock, now you’ve done it _ , he thought, trying his best to telepathically convey all his anger to him.

“What was that?” Tony asked.

Loud, powerful footsteps marched toward him, and he heard the familiar click of a gun. With extreme caution, he risked peeking ever so slightly, and saw Evans kick the scrap pile Sherlock had been aiming for. When he found no one there, he set his eyes on the portable toilet. Now, Sherlock did make panicked eye contact with John. John took a moment to glare at him.  _ So now you remember I exist? _ he said with his eyes.

Evans was dangerously close to Sherlock. John frantically looked around. His mind was racing a hundred miles a minute.  _ Think, John, think, _ he told himself. It was then that he spotted the tip of a trash can lid sticking out of the gravel. He rose into a half crouch and kicked it as hard as he could. The lid flew in the air, bounced on the ground a few times, and then rolled in circles until it fell flat again.

Evans’ head snapped towards his cement pile, and he jogged towards it, gun at the ready. Tony and Sean followed close behind him. John figured he had about eight seconds to figure out how to save himself before they found and killed him. He then saw a gigantic rat up ahead, chewing ferociously on a scrap of plastic. He picked up a rock from the ground and tossed it, aiming close to the rat, but careful not to hit it. It dodged out of the way, as expected, and then darted out towards Evans and his men. John held his breath as all three of them stopped to consider the huge rodent in front of them.

“It’s just a fucking rat,” Tony grumbled.

While they were distracted, John crept out from his pile, careful to watch his step and stay in the darkest parts of the shadows. Sherlock joined him, and they snuck, step by step, to the hole in the wired fence. Meanwhile, Evans marched towards the cement pile. John swallowed and wiped the cold sweat from his temple as he watched him stomp up and look behind it. His heart trembled inside his chest at the sight of the vicious scowl on Evans’ scarred face and the gun in his hand. His skin prickled with bumps and he silently prayed that he would never have to come that close to an encounter with that man again.

Once they were outside the lot, John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and practically dragged him back to his flat, not saying a word until he had shoved him in through the door.

“What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?” he bellowed the moment the door was closed behind them.

“What were  _ you  _ thinking?! You nearly gave yourself away on purpose!”

“I was trying to save your arse after you ran off like a reckless twat!

“I told you I couldn’t hear.”

“What about me? Didn’t you trust me to fill you in later?”

“I don’t trust anyone’s senses except my own.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to jeopardize both of our lives on a total whim like that! You could’ve gotten both of us killed. Do you realize that? Tell me you realize that.”

“On the contrary, I only jeopardized my own life. You brought yourself into it.”

“So you expected me to sit back and let them find you? You know he probably would’ve killed you.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Eventually. But not before punishing me for running away. And going behind his back. And spying on him.”

“And you were just going to let that happen?”

“I would’ve figured something out.”

John sputtered for a response. He couldn’t stand how nonchalant Sherlock was being about this. It didn’t even seem to faze him how close he’d come to dying tonight.

“Sherlock,” he started, slowly. “Why don’t you care about your own life as much as you care for mine?”

It was a loaded question, he knew. Full of bold assumptions about his own importance. Sherlock glanced at him and then looked away, and his annoyed pout melted into a pained sort of resignation.

“Who says I don’t care for my life?” he asked, though the softness of his voice gave his bluff away. 

“Did you really expect me to let them find you?” Sherlock’s silence and the press of his lips were an answer enough. “Sherlock . . .”

“Well, what about you?” Sherlock asked. “When Eli attacked you, you told me to run. You wanted me to leave you behind.” John opened his mouth only to find himself speechless. It was true. That’s exactly what had happened. “Why?” Sherlock asked. His voice came out as barely more than a whisper.

John sighed and reached up to place his palm on Sherlock’s cheek. He didn’t know why, but it was like couldn’t help himself. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered and he leaned into the touch like he was starving for it.

“I just couldn’t stand for you to get hurt because of a situation I got us into,” John admitted quietly. Sherlock placed his fingers around John’s wrist and tilted his head further into the hand on his cheek.

“John, just promise me – I don’t ever want you to put yourself in danger to save me again.”

John searched his eyes with a frown. He and Sherlock had been saving each other’s lives since first night they met. John had killed for him when they had barely known each other a few days. They’d fought to defend each other so many times since then, and he just knew in the deepest part of his heart that in any situation, he’d do whatever was necessary to protect Sherlock.

“I don’t think I can promise that,” he said.

Sherlock deflated a bit, though he didn’t push it further. He seemed to understood that it was just as unrealistic to ask that of John as it was to expect it the other way around. John brought his other hand up to fully cup Sherlock’s face. His eyes continued to dart between those mesmerizing, aquamarine orbs that seemed to contain a drop of the universe. Sherlock’s pupils were wide and dark, and his expression was transparent as glass.

John found himself rising up on his toes, completely unable to tear away from his eyes. It was like he was in some sort of hypnotic trance and Sherlock was a magnet. There was nothing he could do to resist his pull. He rose up and pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s warm, waiting lips. At once they fell back into their familiar dance. Sherlock pulled him in and dipped his head to deepen the kiss. Arms held each other tight and secure, letting nothing come between them. On and on it went as they kissed like it had been an eternity.

“God, can we -?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John walked them back into his bedroom and fell back onto the bed, pulling Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock ducked under his chin and began worshipping his neck with kisses that were tender but fire-hot with desire. He lifted his chin to receive them and arched up to untuck his shirt from his trousers. With a bit of wriggling, he worked it up and over his head. Sherlock sat up briefly to remove his own shirt and then laid back down. John kissed him to heal every bit of pain Sherlock had felt last night while he was away. He kissed him to make up for that morning in the shower. He kissed him to fill in for the icy silence that had been between them all day. 

With some gentle guidance, John rotated them and eased himself on top. Their hips rolled together where they lined up. The most beautiful sounds came from Sherlock’s mouth, and John drank them in with his never-ending kisses. Their hands wandered to touch every bit of each other’s naked chests, shoulders, arms, waists. It was such a stark difference to where they had stood with each other a mere few hours ago – barely talking or even looking each other in the eyes.

“We can’t keep doing this,” John said, peppering his lips with firm kisses. “This hot and cold thing.”

Sherlock hummed and held the back of his head to keep their mouths together. John succumbed immediately and allowed his tongue to prod into his mouth. With his free hand, Sherlock reached down to unbuckle his own belt. He wiggled his trousers down so that they rested around the middle of his thighs. John then did the same to himself. Once his trousers were down to his knees, they were free to rub against each other with only two thin layers of cotton between them. Sherlock tilted his head to kiss him from a different angle, even bit lightly at his bottom lip. John retaliated with his own little nibble and then pulled back to where their mouths were just out of reach.

“Sherlock, come on, seriously. We should talk,” he said.

Sherlock pulled him back down and rolled them over so he was back on top. John held the sides of his head and gave in again. He hummed from deep in the back of his throat, positively melting into the feeling.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s words from the previous night echoed through his ears.

_ “ _ _ I can’t do these things and not feel. Not like you.” _

_ Not like you, _ he’d said. The words sliced into him just as brutally as they had last night.  Sherlock thought him to be a heartless, unfeeling monster who took advantage of his willingness to sleep with him. The injustice of it had eaten away at him all day. He couldn’t let Sherlock go on a moment longer thinking he didn’t care about what was happening right now.

“Sherlock, we need to talk about what’s going on here. What you said last night.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock grumbled as he nipped at his jaw and then sucked at the skin underneath it.

“We can’t keep doing this if it’s making you miserable. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“You could never make me unhappy.”

“God, Sherlock,” John said, twisting away from his nipping teeth. “I’m trying here. What do you want me to do?”

“Want you to fuck me,” Sherlock drawled, dipping down to rake his teeth against the other side of his neck. John froze under the next set of sucking kisses along his throat. That statement set his nerves on fire in a most dangerous way. It took every ounce of his willpower to get his next word out.

“No.”

“Yes. Come on, John.”

Before he could protest, Sherlock silenced him with another kiss. He took his hand and guided it down between his legs, all the way back. John pulled his hand back and twisted his head away.

“Sherlock, please-”

“No,” Sherlock growled. “No more talking.”

John’s eyes fluttered shut as Sherlock licked around the shell of his ear. A wet tongue dipped in and lips sucked at his lobe. A light whimper escaped his mouth and he had to bite his lip to stop from doing it again. His pulse soared as Sherlock continued. His heart seemed to stop while at the same time, his breath came in short, needy pants. He didn’t trust himself to speak again until that sinuous mouth moved back to his jaw.

“Why won’t you talk with me?” he asked in a breathy whisper.

At this, Sherlock pulled back with a frown and held himself over him with straight arms. “ _ What, _ John. What on earth is there to talk about?” His eyes were lit with fiery frustration.

“Us! I want to talk about us.”

“There is no  _ us _ . You said yourself.  _ ‘Nothing has to change.’ _ We have a job to work on together, and this is a mere convenience. Isn’t that right?”

The words tore into him, and John quickly felt burning prickle behind his eyes.

“I said,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “Is that or is it not what you said to me?”

John swallowed down the tightness in his throat. He could feel his face burning up with shame and regret.

“It is,” he admitted quietly.

“Then explain to me why you want to  _ talk _ right now. What exactly is there to say that you haven’t already said?”

“It’s not what I said! It’s what _ you _ said! Back when you were high out of your fucking mind! I’m doing this for you, you absolute prick.”

Sherlock glowered at him.

“Has it ever occurred to you that whatever I might’ve said while I was high was not meant for your ears to begin with?  Has it ever occurred to you that the things that come out when I’m in that state are the things I can’t bear to think about at any other time? The things I push down far, the things I can’t stand to look at. The things I don’t  _ want _ to look at. And that you shoving them back in my face is the absolute last thing I’d want? Has that occurred to you?”

Mistiness prickled in John’s eyes again, burning hot. Sherlock had just drilled into his core with the most brutal, cutting words. He felt knocked off his feet, totally unprepared for that onslaught of cruel accusations that made him feel even more like a monster.

Sherlock‘s cold eyes stabbed into him. His glare was unrelenting as he waited for response. But when John stayed quiet, his expression relaxed and the fire in his eyes was replaced with bored indifference.

“Just forget it,” he said.

With that, he rolled away from him and pulled the sheets tight over his body. John propped up on his elbows and looked down at the curled-up form beside him. The sight fanned the fire in his chest, and soon he felt his face turn beet red with anger.

“So that’s it then? You’re just going to shut me out like you always do when something doesn’t go your way?” He made no attempt to soften his tone this time. 

There was absolutely no response from the tense bundle under the sheets. No sign that he’d even heard him. Seething with anger, John swung his legs over the side of the bed and lifted off. “Absolutely fucking ridiculous,” he mumbled.

He kicked his trousers off so that he was only in his boxers and dragged his pillow out to the couch. He threw it down harder than necessary and laid down. 

It took him hours to fall asleep.

 

**********

 

Sherlock woke up at 8:45. He had forgotten to set an alarm, but luckily he had naturally gotten up at exactly the right time. He sat up and gave his back and arms a generous stretch. The other side of the bed was empty, and there was a light snoring coming from outside the bedroom. It was then that Sherlock remembered the fight he and John had last night, and his chest tightened with dread.

Part of him knew he was in the wrong, but the other part of him was too stubborn to do anything about it. Maybe he didn’t have to be so harsh, but truly, how many times did they have to “discuss their relationship?” It killed him enough to do it once.

Logically, he knew space was the best thing for them both at the moment. He would’ve liked nothing more than to go for a walk – just stay outside and wander until it was dark again so that he wouldn’t have to be near John and all the negative energy pulsating through the entire flat at the moment. Unfortunately, they had a mission to accomplish that wouldn’t wait for them to make up.

He dressed and freshened up in the bathroom as quickly and quietly as he could, enjoying his last minutes of solitude and peace. When he was finished, he knelt by the couch and gently shook John’s shoulder. John mumbled in his sleep before opening his tired, baggy eyes. It was a few moments before Sherlock could physically see the memories of last night dim the friendly twinkle in his eyes into a dull glare of discontentment.

“You need to get up,” Sherlock said. “We need to be out of here by 9:30 at the latest.”

John got up and brushed past him without a word. He dressed and used the bathroom in complete silence, and when Sherlock opened the door for him to leave through, they both averted their eyes.

Sherlock led them back to the construction lot that they’d gone to last night. Although, this time, the sky was bright, and the crosswalks were full of pedestrians. All the while, a plan was formulating in his head. A completely insane plan - but a plan nonetheless. And the more he thought about what this plan would entail, the more his stomach knotted at John’s cold stiffness beside him. It wasn’t right, what had happened between them. He knew that. And he knew it was probably up to him to apologize, but he was all too aware of how terrible he was at that kind of thing. He walked with his head down, caught between tightening up his plan and worrying about John.

It was 9:42 according to his phone when they reached the lot. Perfect timing. Sherlock pulled John into a nearby alley.

“Let me guess, we’re following the van?” John asked. They were the first words he’d spoken all day, and they were curt and stiff as his posture. “The pickup van,” John repeated. “We’re following it to the motel?”

“Uhh, something like that. Not quite,” Sherlock said. “Stay here for a moment. I’ll be right back,” he said, and darted out of the alley, ignoring the annoyed sigh he heard behind him.

***

Sherlock returned about ten minutes later with a bag in his hands, slightly out of breath from running.

“And just where did you run off to?” John asked. He looked like he had been leaning against the brick wall the entire time, stiff as a statue with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I went to meet the real Phil Reese. I told him to cease all contact with Evans and go home or else I’d anonymously inform his wife of his criminal record.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“Don’t worry. I got everything we needed from him first.” He lifted the bag to show John and then set it on the ground. “He and Evans have been in cahoots for a few weeks. They’ve talked mostly about networking, but now want to meet in person before they get into specifics.”

“Okay? And?”

“John, don’t you see? None of them have seen Phil in person. Someone is picking him up right here in five minutes to take him somewhere and give him extremely confidential information.”

“What are you getting at?”

Sherlock looked him steadily in the eye. “I need you to go undercover. Go wait for the van and be Phil Reese. Be my eyes and ears at the motel just until we know enough to save St. Bart’s. I can’t do it because Evans already knows who I am, so it has to be you.”

John’s eyes widened in shock as he spoke, and then slowly darkened into a thunderous glare.

“If you wanted to get rid of me, you could’ve just said so instead of sending me into a death trap,” he said quietly, averting his eyes to hide the sadness displayed in them.

Sherlock shook his head and held John by the shoulders. “No, no, no. It’s not a death trap. You just have to play your part. Call me every night and update me. And then I’ll get you out of there as quickly as possible. I promise, you’ll be fine.”

John pushed out of his hold. “Sherlock, seriously. This is a stupid plan. There’s no way I wouldn’t get caught.”

“John, I promise. You can do this. Look at me. I need you to do this. It’s our only chance.”

Sherlock watched as John looked out the mouth of the alley and then back to him. Again and again as his battling thoughts passed transparently over his face. The sound of an engine rumbled from afar, and a large, black van pulled up to the construction site. John looked down at the ground, back to Sherlock, and then outside again. 

Sherlock truly understood why John was angry, and he wouldn’t blame him for abandoning him right this second. Yes, it was dangerous and last minute, but he truly had faith in John’s abilities to pull this off. However, that didn’t stop him from being scared either. John could get hurt or killed doing this. He knew that, and he knew if something happened to him, he’d never live with himself - especially after their fight.

John took a step out of the alley. Sherlock genuinely couldn’t tell if he was going to storm off or cross the street to get to the van. On instinct, he reached out to pull him back in.

“John, wait.”

“What?”

Sherlock looked into his eyes. He still couldn’t tell what John’s intentions were. But either way, they were about to part ways. And he couldn’t stand for them to go another moment with this razor-sharp ice between them.

John raised an eyebrow at his silence.

“John, there’s . . . something I should say. I should have said it from the beginning, but I never could. Since it’s unlikely we’ll see each other for a while, I might as well say it now.”

John crossed his arms and waited, with an irritated look still on his face.

“You were right,” Sherlock said. “About what I said to you the other night. It does matter. It matters because I’m . . . John, when we’re together, it means something to me. It’s not just a convenience. Not to me. And when I said those things last night, it was because I - I have . . . feelings for you. That I don’t understand and can’t describe. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that quite yet, but I just needed you to know. Before you go.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and released a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the weight of his burdens seeping out of him. When he opened them, John was staring at him silently, with his arms still crossed. His expression was unreadable, but it didn’t seem pleasant.

“John?” he asked.

John’s face slowly darkened, and his mouth curled downward into a scowl.

“No. Don’t you do that,” he growled.

Sherlock frowned at him, affronted. “Do what?”

John shoved a finger in his chest. “Don’t you play with my emotions just to get me to do your dirty work for you. I deserve better than that. You know I do.”

“John, what’re you-”

“I was already going to do it. You didn’t need to say that just to convince me. I’m sick of this, Sherlock! I’m sick of these mind games you play. Your constant flip-flopping every time I make the slightest effort with you. I truly don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

Sherlock shrunk under John’s vicious tone. Each word out of his mouth was like a twisting knife in his chest.

“I don’t know how stupid you think I am, that you think you could manipulate my decision by saying something like that. I didn’t think even you could be that cruel.”

“No, I wasn’t-”

John stepped away from his outstretched hand and turned towards the mouth of the alley again to leave.

“John wait, the pickup!”

As it left Sherlock’s mouth, he knew it was the absolute worst thing he could have said in that moment. John shot him an angry look over his shoulder and stooped down to pick up the bag.

“Yeah, I’ll do your sodding spy work for you. But after that. . .” John looked at him with utter contempt and disgust in his eyes. The “it’s over” went unspoken, and it shattered Sherlock’s heart.

“John, wait-” he started, but it was too late. John was storming across the street. Sherlock watched with his mouth open in silent horror. It felt like a hand was locked around his throat; he couldn’t say another word as John walked right up to the van and shook someone’s hand on the other side. Without looking back at him once, he climbed into the backseat, and the van drove off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. They're both dumb. But I think we all knew that already. Hope you guys liked it, and as always, please leave a comment if you can!
> 
> Also, I have a question for ya'll. My creative writing professor was recently talking about things that ruin fiction, and he mentioned alternating perspectives as one of them. Because you get really deep into a character's pov and then you're suddenly pulled out of it. It got me thinking, and I'm curious what you guys think about the use of alternating pov in this fic? Just curious! You don't have to answer if you don't want to. 
> 
> Have a great day!


	9. Undercover

The van took John to an area of town that was just as isolated and run-down as the hostel they’d stayed at all those weeks ago. Hardly any trees could be spotted along the drive and the rocky, poorly paved road made for a bumpy ride. The van pulled up to a building and John hopped out. The motel in front of him was single-story and just as worn as the faded out lines on the parking lot. The tile in the front was stained and yellowed as the muggy windows, and the landscaping was dried up and wilted.

Tony locked the car and came around the front. John wanted to ask him why they had decided to base their headquarters here when anyone could walk in and book a room.  Luckily, Tony noticed him eyeing the building and answered his unspoken question before he even had to ask. “It’s not operating anymore,” he said. “But Mitchell knows the old owner, so we’ve got the whole thing to ourselves.”

“Oh, nice,” John said pleasantly, taking note of his casual use of Evans’ first name. 

It was the only conversing they had done since Tony had picked him up, but John hadn’t minded the silence driving over. He’d desperately needed the time to himself after what had happened shortly beforehand. A bitter anguish flared up in his stomach at the reminder of his and Sherlock’s parting conversation. The pain rose to his throat, threatening to choke his composure away, but he clamped it down. With a quick shake of his head that he hoped went unnoticed, he followed Tony into the motel. 

They stepped into what appeared to be a small lounge in the front entrance. Sean, Victor, and a young woman were sitting on the couches chatting cordially. John’s stomach dropped at the sight of the two men. Suddenly, the task before him seemed more impossible than ever. Deceiving all of these people, staying here with them - it would be no fool’s errand. 

“Look who’s here,” Tony said. 

All three of them looked up and saw him and John. The young woman beamed at the sight of Tony and bounced up to greet him. As John watched her throw her arms around him and kiss him on the mouth, he thought back to the day when Sherlock had deduced that Tony was cheating on his wife with a much younger woman. Well, this woman was certainly decades younger than Tony, who looked to be in his mid-50s at least. 

“Phil, meet Sean and Victor,” Tony said once they broke apart, vaguely gesturing to the other two men. Sean and Victor approached, and immediately, John’s body tensed. He felt like the closer they got, the more they’d be able to see what a phony he was.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly, nodding at them together. His fingers clenched around the straps of his bag and he resisted faltering a step backwards. 

The young woman came around and smiled prettily at him. She had sparkling, blue eyes and blonde hair that cascaded in natural waves over her breasts. “Leah,” she said, sticking out her hand. John politely shook it. Her smile stretched wider, and she waited another second or two before releasing his hand.

“Oh, Tony,” Sean said. “Evans called and said he’s not going to be here until later tonight.”

Tony scoffed in exasperation. “Then what was the point of telling us we all needed to be here now?”

“I don’t know. I guess the meeting will just be later then.”

Tony turned to John. “He told you about the meeting, right?” he asked, almost in annoyance.

“Oh, yeah,” John said, mustering all the false confidence he could manage. He braced himself for a follow up question, but to his surprise, it didn’t come. Tony turned away from him without another word. The tension John had been holding in his body since walking in the door slowly started to release, and he allowed himself a small, private smile. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as difficult as he thought. . .

“Where are you from, Phil?” Victor asked suddenly. Immediately, that spike of terror zapped through him again.  

“Oh, um. Around here. London.”

“Where in London?”

“Umm. A bit more south from . . . here.” John cut himself off to falsely clear his throat. His heart started to hammer wildly in his chest. His lips suddenly felt too dry. He kicked himself as his tongue darted out to wet them – a little nervous tick of his.

Victor scanned him up and down. His thick eyebrows bushed together in thought. “So how do you know Evans?” he asked. John stopped breathing altogether. Of all possible questions, he was least prepared for this one. 

“Victor, come on. Let’s not smother him,” Tony said, and John could not have been more thankful. He let out a little puff of breath before he could stop himself, and hoped no one had noticed.

“Sean, show him to his room,” Tony ordered. John nodded at him thankfully and then followed Sean out of the lounge. His shoulder brushed Victor’s as he passed him, and he could feel his brown, almond eyes tracking him all the way until they turned around the corner.

As soon as they were out of everyone else’s sight, John released the breath he had been holding. His grip on his bag relaxed, and he hitched it higher on his shoulder. Sean took him down a long hallway and opened a door for him at the very end. 

“Here you are,” he said.

The room was small and modest – not as nice as his own flat, but it definitely beat a mattress in an open alley. It had minimal furnishing and one bed - a double, thankfully, so there was plenty of room for him and –

No. Not Sherlock. Because John was here by himself. And he and Sherlock were –

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Sean said. “The rest of us will be in the lounge until Evans gets here. You can join us, or not. Up to you.” The door quietly shut, leaving John all alone. His jittering nerves died down and were immediately replaced with a dull but painful ache in his whole body.

He and Sherlock were . . . what exactly? There was no saying what had been going on between them, but whatever it was, it was over now. John sat on the side of the bed and rubbed his hands down his thighs. He and Sherlock were over. They were never together, but it was over. 

A wave of despair crashed over him as it truly hit him for the first time - that if John got out of this mission alive, things would not return to how they used to be. They could never return to that. Not after what Sherlock said to him. And not after what he said to Sherlock. Their parting words echoed hauntingly through John’s ears, and he couldn’t help the sharp spike of pain they drove into his very core. 

It was such a weird middle ground to be caught in – he felt like a game of tug-of-war was being played inside him. Was he allowed to mourn the loss of their - friendship? It’s not like they had broken up. How could they break up if they had never been a couple? But of course, surely he was allowed to be upset. They hadn’t known each other very long, but what they had – it was special, whatever it was. They clicked so instantly and easily it was like the universe had always meant for them to come together. Their lives and minds merged together so seamlessly it was hard for John to believe there had been a time when he didn’t know Sherlock. They had become a team, a unit, within minutes of knowing each other. Surely John was allowed to be upset about the loss of such a relationship. He could be upset that Sherlock had essentially sent him away the moment things got a little coarse between them. He could be hurt that all this time, Sherlock had only seen him as a tool and himself as the puppet master, twisting and turning him in whichever way he needed. Surely, that would be painful to anyone.

But wasn’t the whole point of keeping things casual between them to avoid this exact thing? Feelings? Heartbreak?

Heartbreak. A bolt of shock jolted him. The word had entered his consciousness way too naturally for his liking. No, he thought. You can’t be heartbroken over someone who was never yours.

_ Yours? _

John buried his face in his palms. 

_ “I have feelings for you that I can’t describe. . . but I needed you to know before you go.”  _

His heart burned with searing anguish. Sherlock had said the words with such sincerity, such vulnerability. It only made it sting harder that it was all an act to keep John from abandoning him. Sherlock Holmes, master of deductions, had read him like an open book and thought he knew exactly what tactic to use to manipulate him. Not this time, John thought.

He trembled with anger at how easily Sherlock had toyed with his feelings. He burned with shame at having caught feelings for him at all. He ached with the emptiness at the thought of how meaningless and lonely his life was going to become once he returned home.

John rubbed his palms over his eyes. He didn’t know how long he sat there on the side of his bed, waiting for the drilling pain in his chest to go away.

***

Evening rolled around, and no one came to fetch him. John’s empty stomach had been pinching at his sides for hours, so he decided to hunt the motel for a bit of food.  When he entered the lounge, he saw that a small table had been set up in the center, and a stack of wrapped sandwiches were piled in the middle.

“Just in time!” Leah said cheerfully.

“Phil, come sit,” Sean said. After a moment of hesitation, John took the seat across from Victor and reached for the nearest sandwich labelled turkey.

As he unpeeled the wrapping, he took note the empty seat next to Tony. Evans still wasn’t here, he realized. It was almost dark, but they were supposed to have a meeting tonight, weren’t they? Nearly as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a car pull up on the lot outside. An immediate hush fell over the room. The car door slammed shut, and a small beep followed. Heavy footsteps came creaking up the front steps, the door unlocked, and Evans stepped inside.

John sat up as he got his first close view of the man. The first thing he noticed was the hideous scar mangling the entire left side of his face, starting underneath his eyebrow and reaching to the tip of his cheekbone – John immediately thought back to the story James had told him about the fire they’d started. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scar even as Evans fixed his sharp gaze on each person in the room in turn. There was an instant change of mood around the table. The loudest sound that could be heard were Evans’ steady breaths. John pressed back into his chair as his fierce gaze fell on him and lingered for a moment. His shocking grey eyes seemed to burn a hole in him until they pulled away.  

Without a word, Evans walked up to the table and took a seat beside Tony. John kept his head down and returned to his sandwich, just as everyone else did in complete silence.

As he took a bit of his sandwich, he could feel a pair of eyes drilling into him from the other side of the table. He chewed slowly, trying his best to ignore it, but for what seemed like several minutes, it didn’t go away. His stomach twisted with fear at the thought that Evans could see right through him. Surely, his act was transparent as glass. Surely, knew he wasn’t supposed to be there. He must know. He had to know. Cold sweat prickled at John’s temple. He felt like everyone in the room could hear his heart pounding out of his chest, how loudly he swallowed, how quickly his breaths came. God, this was a stupid plan. He should’ve known . . .

“It’s rude not to introduce yourself to someone who’s entered the room,” came a deep, rocky voice.

John slowly lifted his eyes to find Evans watching him, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his massive chest. His sharp, beady eyes stripped away all his defenses, and for a moment, John forgot how to speak. After a moment, Evans’ thin, chapped lips twitched up.  

“You must be Phil,” he said, sounding a tad kinder.

Relief flooded John. He quickly wiped his hands on a napkin and reached across the table. “Sorry. Yes, hi.”

Evans nodded and gave his hand a firm shake. John sat back and quickly returned to his sandwich. His hand throbbed lightly from the tightness of his grip. Evans slowly looked around the table again. The way his head rotated on his neck was unnatural, almost reptilian.

“I see everyone’s brought along a friend,” he said a bit condescendingly. Leah and Victor shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “Seems like Phil here is the only one who’s confident he can last a few days here without sex.”

The joke got a few forced chuckles around the table along with one choking cough.

“Come on, it’s hardly just a few days,” Tony muttered.

“Is that so?” Evans said. “So, what’s the longest you think you could hold out without your little lady here?”

Once permission was given to talk, everyone seemed to relax just a bit. John, Victor, and Sean perked up a bit in anticipation while Tony drummed his fingers in mock-thought. Leah, meanwhile, fixed him with a gentle look of warning.

“Not even a day,” he said, putting his arm around the back of her chair. Leah smiled prettily and rolled her eyes. John caught her gaze, and she gave flashed him another quick grin.

“What about you?” Evans asked Sean, as if asking what his favorite type of weather was.

“Oh please, he can hardly put his shoes on the right feet without me,” Victor said.

The others laughed along, but John felt his face flush as he took another bite. He seemed to be the only one uncomfortable with this very odd conversation and didn’t understand how relaxed everyone else seemed to be about it. Was this a normal dinner table topic for these people?

“What’s the matter, Phil?” Tony called in his direction. “Missing your girlfriend already?” 

“Oh, no. I’m as single as it gets,” he said quickly, trying to sound nonchalant when in fact, getting the words out felt like pulling teeth. Even uttering the word “single” had caused a brutal pang in his chest. With a tightening ache in his stomach, he once again pushed the image of Sherlock out of his head.

Sean clapped him on the back. “No ball and chain, eh? Must be living the life.”

Why not, John thought. He flashed a cheeky smile and shrugged as if to agree. A round of hoots around the table followed, but they fell on deaf ears. John only felt sunken and grey inside as the conversation turned to previous relationships.

He sat silently and listened to everyone tell horror stories of their craziest exes and worst hook-ups. With a pinch of guilt, he remembered he was supposed to be Sherlock’s eyes and ears over here. Scanning over everyone at the table in a weak attempt to deduce, he quickly realized how pointless the effort was. He wasn’t Sherlock. Sherlock could probably take one look at this scene - at Tony unconsciously stroking Leah’s shoulder as he laughed at Victor’s story, at Evans sitting back and observing with an amused grin - and deduce a novel’s worth of information. He was truly the wrong person for this job, and it once again reiterated how unbelievable it was that Sherlock had such faith in him to do this right. 

“I’d never met anyone that off their rocker before,” Victor said. “Even Sherlock had some crazy moments, but he was never like that.”

John’s head snapped up. He’d completely forgotten - Victor and Sherlock used to be an item.

“Oh god, I remember Sherlock,” Sean said. “What a fucking freak.”

“I know,” Victor groaned. “Drove me up the walls. But god, he was a good shag. That man can suck a dick like no one I’ve never met, man or woman. Ungodly talent.”

John fidgeted in his seat and felt his face twist in disgust. Each word Victor said about Sherlock was a like a blow to his gut, threatening to upturn everything he’d just eaten. 

“Sherlock Holmes?” Evans asked.

“Yeah, why? You know him?” Victor asked through a mouthful.

“He worked for me. Lived at my house for a while.”

Victor shared a filthy, secretive smile with him. “So you know what I’m talking about then.”

“No, actualIy. I regret never finding out, though,” Evans said thoughtfully, as if he were talking about how he should’ve tried skydiving when he had the chance.

John’s hands clutched the edge of his chair so tightly it hardly felt like there was anything between the wood and his bone. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on his sandwich in front of him, which now seemed as unappetizing as the stringy hairs between Victor’s eyebrows.

“I was his dealer for a bit, you know,” Tony added. “But that was so long ago.”

John sucked in his lips and felt his stomach flip - Sherlock had never mentioned this. Though he now couldn’t say he blamed him. His eyes shot up to Tony, looking at him for the first time in this new light. Evans let out a deep, dirty chuckle and Victor once again gave him that smirking, knowing look that made John feel physically ill.

“What about you, Phil?” Tony asked. “You know him? That would make everyone in the room.”

John spared a sympathetic glance to Leah, who was sitting right beside Tony, apparently forgotten in his count. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out groggy. “No. Never heard of him,” he said. It sounded a bit too rushed, even to his own ears. Tony shrugged it off, but Victor once again looked at him with those curious, squinting eyes.

“I had an ex who was like that,” Leah said. She and Tony quickly launched into a joint story about her crazy ex-boyfriend who kept coming around her house after they broke up. In the middle of it, Evans’ phone rang. He held up his finger to excuse himself and hurried out of the lounge with the phone to his ear. John watched him leave, only half listening to the rest of the story. Within a minute, his raised voice could barely be heard from around the corner.  _ “She left?! Where the hell could she have gone? . . . Are you kidding me? That BITCH.”   _

The venomous tone caught everyone else’s attention, and all voices quickly fell to a hush. Everyone waited in silence as Evans stormed back into the lounge and snatched his jacket.

“I’ve gotta run,” he said.

“What happened?” Tony asked.

“Gotta clean up a mess one of my workers just made for me. We’ll have our meeting tomorrow.”

With that, he nearly bolted out of the motel. The door swung shut behind him with a click. Outside, the engine of his car started up and he zoomed off the property. Everyone stared through the window until the cloud of dust left behind by his car dissipated into the air. 

“Well,” Tony said. “That puts a damper on the rest of our plans for the evening.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure we’ll find another way to keep busy,” Leah said, playfully drawing a finger up his arm. Tony chuckled and drew her into his lap and they shared a quick kiss. John tried not to cringe at the obvious, visible difference in their ages. 

“You guys know you have a room, right?” Sean said.

Tony put his middle finger up and kissed Leah harder, if only to make a point that he could. John looked away uncomfortably and decided to take that as his cue to leave. “Well, if that’s all, then I guess I’ll check in,” he said, crumpling his sandwich wrappers into a ball.

“But it’s so early,” Sean said.

“Yeah, I like to work out by myself in the evenings and just relax. I’m not much of a night owl. Night, everyone.”

With a polite smile, he left the lounge, feeling Victor’s eyes trailing him all the way until he turned the corner.

***

At midnight, when John was sure everyone had gone to sleep, he used the room phone to call his own cell phone, which he knew was back at his flat. In a few seconds, the line connected.

“Hello?” A fist clenched around John’s heart at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. His body seemed to grow heavy with dread at the memories of their last conversation.

“Hey.”

“John,” Sherlock said, sounding surprised. The line was quiet for a few seconds. “I’m – I’m glad you called.”

John kept quiet and looked at his feet. He tried not to picture Sherlock anxiously pacing his flat, waiting all day for the phone to ring.

“Everything okay?” Sherlock asked, obviously trying a bit too hard to sound neutral.

“Yeah, great,” John said. He sat on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got my own room, so we’ll have privacy when we talk.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock said. “Who else is there?”

“Tony and Sean. Tony brought his girlfriend Leah. And uh, Victor’s here, too.”

A slight pause followed. “Anyone else?”

“Evans was here too, but he ran out to take care of something. But there’s a meeting tomorrow, so he’ll be back.”

“Okay. And they all believed that you’re Phil without a problem?”

John thought back to the way Victor’s eyes had lingered on him every time he spoke and the little glint of suspicion in them when he’d left the lounge. “Yep. No one suspects a thing,” he said, staring at the door as if expecting it to fly open. Sherlock was quiet for a moment on the other end.

“That’s good,” he said, though John detected a note of caution in his voice. “What else?”

“That’s about it. I’ll probably have more after the meeting tomorrow.”

“Yes, but what else do you have on Tony and Sean? Their motivations, how they know Evans, etc. What have you deduced?”

“I told you everything I’ve got.” John said defensively. He could practically hear the disappointment coming from the other line, and he couldn’t help that his heart sunk a little.

“What do you mean that’s all you have?” Sherlock asked. “Tell me you aren’t serious.”

John scowled in budding anger. “You wanna ease up a bit?” he said, trying to keep his voice at a low volume. “I’ve been here less than a day.”

Sherlock released a long, impatient sigh. “Do try to do better tomorrow. You have to understand we’re working under dangerous time constraints here.”

“You think I don’t know that?” John said, coming dangerously close to shouting. 

“John, all I’m saying is I’d like to have you out of there as soon as possible, so just try-”

“Why? I thought you had total faith in me and it was perfectly safe for me to be here.” With every word exchanged between them, his blood pressure rose and his suppressed anger at Sherlock boiled higher to the surface.

Sherlock’s response was quiet on the other end. “I didn’t - I never said-”

“So you did send me into a death trap?” 

“I did not. As long as you don’t blow it, I firmly believe you can get out of there safely.”

John scoffed. “As long as I don’t blow it,” he mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock’s voice suddenly firmed up. “John, please. I just want you to return home safely. I wish I didn’t have to send you in there alone, but it’s the way it had to be. Now can you please just cooperate and agree to try harder tomorrow?”

John glared at the wall. Sitting there on the bed with the phone to his ear, the four walls around him seemed to be swallowing him up. Not for the first time, he felt utterly used and discarded by Sherlock. Like a prop. A pawn being sacrificed first. Sherlock could pretend to care for his well-being all he wanted. But at the end of the day, he had rejected John’s advances for weeks and only pretended to return his feelings when he needed to ask something huge of him. He sent him here with no preparation whatsoever and expected him to magically produce instant results. Yet, the disappointment in Sherlock’s voice cut into John’s core. At the end of it all, he wanted to succeed for Sherlock’s sake - wanted to impress him. And he had failed him today. He had never felt smaller in his life or more pathetic for wanting so badly to please a man who treated him so carelessly.

John’s head throbbed with pressure and his throat seemed to block. He cleared it and uttered a rocky “Yeah.”

The other line was quiet. The longer the silence stretched on, the more the air between them seemed to scream of their last encounter, which was being tactfully avoided by both of them. John sniffed and picked at the phone cord. The extended silence would have almost been comical were it not so utterly painful with each passing second.

“Good,” Sherlock nearly whispered. “So . . . same time tomorrow night then?” He spoke so quietly John could hardly hear him.

“Yeah,” he repeated. His voice came out small and croaky. He quickly cleared his voice to repeat himself, but Sherlock jumped in first.

“Alright. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight.”

The line disconnected, and John set the phone down. His heart felt weighed down with grief, though he didn’t know for what. There was nothing to grieve. He and Sherlock were nothing more than work acquaintances now. He didn’t know what more he’d expected from that conversation. 

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed them in circles. Perhaps he was just tired. He wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t a night owl, and it was now past midnight – far too late of a night for him. He laid back and rolled to face the nightstand. Somehow, he could feel the vacancy of the other half of the bed prickling on his skin. It was colder, lacking the warmth of another human. He curled in his legs and tugged the blanket tighter around himself. His heart felt so stiff with despair, each beat seemed to take significant effort. When his eyes drifted closed, he hoped that - for whatever godforsaken reason - Sherlock was still thinking of him too.

 

**********

 

Sherlock looked down at the phone in his hand for several long seconds before setting it down. He laid back in John’s bed and stared up at the ceiling, hand on his bare chest. All day he had grieved for the unfortunate parting conversation they’d had in the alley. All day he’d reprimanded himself for how gracelessly he’d handled the situation and ached for nothing more than to run up to John, wherever he was, and beg his forgiveness. But now, all he felt was reluctant gratitude that they were temporarily apart. He knew how unlikely it was that their partnership would continue after stopping Evans’ attack. The fact that he didn’t have to see John every day now made accepting that a bit easier. But only a bit. 

There had been something uncertain in John’s voice. Something dishonest. John was lying to him when he said that everyone was buying his act. And his hesitation before saying Victor’s name. . . Something was amiss. Sherlock remembered Victor being very perceptive and intelligent, despite those features being hidden under an incredibly annoying and immature façade.

He truly hoped John wasn’t lying to him. They needed to pull this off. If there was one outcome here that would be demonstrably worse than any other possibility, it would be John’s identity being discovered. He would be in danger. They’d likely torture and/or kill him. And it would all be because Sherlock put him in that position. Because Sherlock couldn’t protect him.

He pinched his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He couldn’t fail to protect John, he thought as he rolled over. He couldn’t. No matter how they fought or how angry they got with each other, John was his responsibility. His friend, perhaps his only friend. He’d failed to protect Janine when she needed him most. Not John, too. Never John.  
  


_ Sherlock woke up to a soft shake of his shoulder. His eyes blinked open, but his room was pitch dark.   _

_ “Hm?” he mumbled, starting to sit up in his bed. _

_ “Shhh,” came a soft, feminine voice and another gentle touch to his shoulder. Sherlock propped himself up on his forearms and blinked at the figure perched next to him on the bed. _

_ “Janine?” he whispered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Even through the dark, he could see her smiling brightly at him. He noticed she was wearing a backpack and jacket, zipped up halfway with the hood pulled over her head. A few locks of her dark, curly hair draped loosely over her chest. “Uh, going somewhere?” he asked. _

_ She smiled at him again from underneath the hood, her white teeth bright against the grey darkness. “I’m finally getting out,” she whispered, as if sharing a dirty secret. _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “After tonight my debt will be paid off.” Her smile stretched even further. “I’m going to be free,” she whispered enthusiastically. _

_ Sherlock fully sat up, suddenly wide awake. He was not sure what could have possibly caused this delusion. “Janine, I don’t think it’s that simple. You can’t just walk away from here.” _

_ “Why not? I’ve done my time, and it’s time for me to go now.” _

_ He gaped at her in disbelief. It almost hurt to see how eager she was. He swallowed and looked at her with mixed pity and concern. “Where would you even go?” _

_ She leaned in and lowered her voice even more. “Daniel and I are getting away. We’re going far away, starting a new life.” She lifted his hand and guided it to rest flat on her belly. “So we can all be together.” _

_ Sherlock looked back and forth between her face and his hand on her stomach. “You . . . you’re . . . oh my god.” _

_ Her eyes twinkled brightly at him. “I am,” she said happily. _

_ “Does Daniel know?” _

_ “Yes. He’s thrilled. We both are,” she said, flashing a smile. “But that’s also why I need to get out of here. I’m not telling anyone that I’m leaving. But I couldn’t go without telling you goodbye.” She lifted her hand to lightly cup his cheek. _

_ “Janine, I . . .” His eyes darted between hers. He really couldn’t imagine Evans shaking hands with her and letting her walk out the door with no strings attached. With him, there was always fine print. Sherlock looked over Janine’s smiling face. She was practically vibrating with eager energy. _

_ “I don’t think you should go,” he said. _

_ “Sherlock, come on. What on earth is left for me here? There’s no reason for me to stay. Too much bad history. You understand.” She tenderly stroked a thumb over his cheek. “I have to go, alright?” _

_ He stared at her for a moment longer and then closed his gaping mouth. He wanted more than anything for her to be safe and happy, but there was clearly no talking her out of this. He reluctantly lowered his eyes in submission. _

_ “Take care, Sherlock,” she whispered, and leaned in to press her lips to his cheek. She lingered there for a long time, and he let her. He sighed through his nose and covered her hand with his own, giving a light squeeze. At last, she pulled back from her kiss, flashed one last smile at him, and then crept back out his room. _

 

_ Some hours later, Sherlock woke to the sound of a disturbance downstairs. A horrible feeling bit sharply at his gut as he listened. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Before he knew it, he was slipping out of his blankets and creeping outside his room. He tiptoed downstairs, thankful that the harsh whispers were masking each creak of his steps. _

_ Downstairs, he realized the commotion was coming from Evans’ room. The door was halfway open, and he could see the shadows of two people standing in a hidden corner. Janine. Sherlock froze outside the door. Then, carefully as if approaching a feral animal, he gently eased it open to get a better view. Evans had Janine backed against a wall. His hand was roughly gripping her jaw. Her eyebrows were furrowed in anger as she spoke back to him through gritted teeth, trying desperately to push him away. Sherlock could see the signs in the rigidness of Evans’ body and the harshness of his breathing; he was going to be violent very soon. And when he did, Janine wouldn’t be ready for it. God, he had told her, hadn’t he? He had told her it wouldn’t be so simple as walking out the door. Janine’s eyes glanced over Evans’ shoulder locked with his. Evans turned around to follow her gaze and loosened his grip on her jaw. _

_ “Ah, Sherlock. Did you hear the news? Miss Hawkins here plans on leaving us tonight.” His voice positively dripping with icy venom. _

_ “Sherlock, just go,” Janine said, frustrated and seemingly a little embarrassed. _

_ Sherlock remained rooted to the floor. Evans was itching to lash out, and Sherlock would absolutely not stand by and let that happen. He put his hands up defensively and inched closer to them. He moved slowly, as if tip-toeing around a snarling tiger that was ready to pounce if he made a single wrong move.   _

_ “Alright. I’ll talk to her, okay? Just let her come upstairs with me. She won’t try to leave again.” _

_ Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Janine’s, and she quickly looked away. He knew that move. She was angry at herself; she didn’t like needing to be rescued but couldn’t deny to herself that she was thankful for his intervention. _

_ “I don’t believe this concerns you, Sherlock,” Evans drawled. _

_ At this, Janine’s eyes shot up to his, widened and desperate, despite her earlier request for him to leave. _

_ “Please,” was all he could say. _

_ Evans marched up to him until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “Why should I let her go, huh? What’ll you do?” _

_ Sherlock glanced at Janine and then back at Evans. He swallowed and blinked a few times, just barley controlling his quickening breath. _

_ “Anything,” he said quietly. _

_ Evans stepped back slightly. His eyes traveled between the two of them, slow and snake-like. He stepped to the side a little so that he was next to Sherlock and the two of them were facing Janine. _

_ “Go on, then,” he said to her, cocking his head towards Sherlock. “Go with him. Get the hell out of my sight.” _

_ Sherlock nearly sighed in relief, didn’t dare. Janine, however, looked torn deciding if it was a trick question or not. His heart thudded in his chest as he waited for her to move. Come on, Janine, he mentally urged.  Finally, she pushed herself off the wall and began walking towards him, her pace picking up as she got closer. _

_ It happened faster than anything Sherlock could have anticipated. _

_ When she was about halfway to him, Evans whipped his gun out of his back pocket. Sherlock saw it out of the corner of his eye, but it didn’t fully register. Not when he was so close to getting her out of Evans’ presence. His brain caught onto that little flicker of movement just a second too late. The gunshot assaulted his eardrums and resounded through the house. When he opened his eyes and lowered his hands from his ears, his heart stopped beating altogether. His mouth dropped open in a silent scream. All the air left his body, leaving his lungs to collapse within him. _

_ Janine stood in front of him, looking down at her stomach - the stomach Sherlock had touched mere hours ago when she’d told him her happy news. Dark blood oozed through the fingers that were splayed out on her belly, darkening her shirt, spreading and soaking the material. Sherlock’s hands hovered in front of him, reaching out as if there was anything he could do for her. Janine’s eyes lifted from her stomach and locked onto his in horror. She dropped to her knees with an echoing thud, and then collapsed sideways onto the hard floor. _

_ Sherlock stayed frozen and numb, unable to move from his spot. His hands remained out in front of him. He couldn’t feel anything. In an instant, everything had turned dead and grey inside him.  Beside him, Evans tucked his smoking gun away. The two of them stood side by side, staring down at the bleeding body on the floor. _

_ “I forgot,” Evans said. “You’ll already do whatever the hell I ask. Nothing keeps a desperate junkie from his fix.” _

_ Sherlock lowered his hands and swallowed the rocky lump in his throat. His heart burned with shame at the truth of his statement. And when the single tear leaked from his eye, he wasn’t sure if it was from grief or fury at himself. _

_ “In the morning, you and Irene take care of the body. Then go through her things and decide what’s worth keeping,” Evans said before turning and leaving the room. The stoicism in his voice made hot bile rise in Sherlock’s throat. He swallowed it down, feeling his stomach recoil at the unwanted acids. _

_ When Evans was gone, Sherlock dropped to his knees beside the body. The light had already faded from Janine’s wide-open eyes, leaving behind dull, meaningless orbs that contained none of the mirth that had made Janine herself. He gathered her into his shaking arms, pushing the hair back from her face, and gently closing her eyelids. He stayed there with her, his hand closed over her blood-soaked fingers, until the sun rose, and he could feel Irene hovering in the doorway behind him. _

When Sherlock woke up, the skin around his eyes was stiff from dried tears. He blinked slowly, feeling his lower eyelashes dark and heavy with wetness.

***

Sherlock took a long, slow shower in John’s bathroom and ate breakfast alone at the table. The flat was far too still and silent for his liking. But that was going to be the state of things from now on until John returned, he realized.

He planned on investigating Evans’ house in a few hours, when he knew the house would be empty. But in order to do so, he would need John’s notebook. He was unable to find it last night to jot down whatever was relayed to him over the phone. Luckily, given his memory, he didn’t need to. But it was still best to keep all their notes in one place. 

He looked in John’s desk, the most obvious place for it. The surface was clean and organized - no notebook in sight. In fact, it hardly looked used at all. Naturally, Sherlock thought. It must have been ages since John has had a normal desk job. Sherlock checked the the right drawer, which turned out to be a filing place for important documents, forms, and bills. At the very back, Sherlock found, was his birth certificate. Hamish, he read in between the names “John” and “Watson.” How odd, amusing, and so wonderfully John, he thought. 

With a little smirk to himself, he returned the certificate to its rightful place and moved to the left drawer, where he found only a notepad. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to what this pad was used for. It contained everything from grocery lists to random reminders to loosely outlined schedules. In the very back was a list of a few names along with phone numbers and addresses. Mary and Eli were on the list, he noticed, penned in at the bottom in small writing as if John was ashamed to have them in his list of contacts. Right below theirs was a name he hadn’t heard before: Sally Donovan. Sherlock frowned at the little name, noticing how it was written in John’s normal-sized handwriting, like he was alright with her being a part of his list. Given her grouping with Mary and Eli, Sherlock wondered if she was also a part of their organization. But then why had John never once mentioned her?

He frowned at the book again, once again marveling at what a void of mysteries John Watson was, and how truly little he knew about him. He put it down and opened the bottom drawer to find - bingo. The notebook. 

***

In the afternoon, Sherlock walked to Evans’ house. For a long time, he stood outside, taking in the faded color of the bricks, the overgrown plants, the yellowed windows. It was hideous, but it had been home to him for so long. When he had left all those weeks ago to search for James Sholto, he never expected that he would never call this place home again, that his trip would forever end his era here. He put his hands in his pockets and walked up the steps, listening for the familiar creaks of the weakened wood. The front door was unlocked, as expected. He carefully pushed it open and poked his head inside. The interior was just as grey and lifeless as he remembered. The only light came from the small windows casting down wide, rectangular beams of light.

Sherlock tip-toed inside, listening carefully for any signs of life, but there were none. Not even a single passed-out junkie laying slumped against the wall.

“Irene?” he called out in a harsh whisper.

Nothing. The only movement came from the swirling dust particles visible in the beating light. Sherlock came further into the house and looked around. The chairs and barstools were pushed out and crooked. The ratty, torn couch, however, had no signs of being recently sat in. Sherlock frowned and went upstairs.

“Irene?” he called again, this time in his normal volume.

No response. He peeked into her room and was startled at what he found. Her bed sheets were stripped. Her drawers were all opened and emptied. Her backpack and all her clothes were gone, and there were no signs that anyone had lived in this room for at least a few days. Sherlock backed out of the bedroom, took his phone out, and scrolled to Irene’s name in his contacts. His thumb hovered over the call button, but he put it away. Later, he decided. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t want to possibly endanger her by calling.

Sherlock kept moving and paused for a moment in front of Janine’s old room. The door was slightly ajar, as it always was. His heart clenched painfully in his chest and he quickly moved past it and entered his own.

It was exactly as he had left it. Not a thing was out of place. Even the covers on the bed were crinkled and bundled exactly as they were from the last night he had slept here. Against his will, his eyes were drawn to the nightstand where he knew he kept his emergency stash of cocaine. The temptation drew him like a magnet. The little plastic bags called to him from where they were hidden behind the wooden drawer and black handle. Sherlock’s body flashed hot and suddenly his arms and legs felt jittery. With every ounce of determination in his being, he tore away from the sight and left the room.

He went back downstairs and into Evans’ room – the only place he knew was actually worth searching. The room was empty, as he expected.  But what he saw made his jaw drop and heart spike.

Taped up on the wall was a huge map of London. Various streets were highlighted and others exed out. But most importantly, five locations were circled in big red marker and labeled with numbers one through five. St. Bart’s hospital was one of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who answered my question in the comments last time! I really appreciated all that feedback and input <3
> 
> I'm sorry that the boys are apart for this whole chapter, but just hold out a tiny bit longer ;) They'll be together soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Happy summer to everyone who's on break and good luck to everyone taking final exams at this time<3


	10. Anarchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mild, non-graphic domestic abuse

In the morning, John woke up to find the motel suspiciously quiet. Not a peep came from any of the neighboring rooms The hallways were empty. Not a single person was in the communal bathrooms, nor in the lounge. Though there were still several cars parked outside, however, so he knew he hadn’t been abandoned. John wandered about, wondering where everyone had disappeared to, until he heard faint voices and laughter coming from one of the halls. Following it, he approached the only door that was slightly ajar. With the tip of his finger, he eased it open a bit more and peeked inside. The room, which must have previously been a bedroom, had been converted into some sort of recreational area.

Sean, Victor, Tony, and Leah surrounded the pool table in the center of the room, each carrying a long cue stick. Victor leaned over the green cloth, took a moment to align himself, and then struck the white ball. Several balls bounced around the edges of the table, but none made it into any of the pockets. He straightened back up with a frown, and the men rotated around the table. Leah, meanwhile, looked back and saw John hovering in the doorway.

“Grab a cue, Phil!” she said pleasantly. The three men turned to look at him. John raised a hand in polite decline.

“I don’t want to ruin your even number.”

“Come on, we’re just hitting around for fun,” she said, handing him a sleek, elegant stick. “Go ahead. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

John reluctantly approached and chalked up his hands. Leah grinned as she watched, raising an eyebrow at him as he walked around the table trying to choose a position. He looked back at her to return her challenging look and then leaned over the table. He carefully took aim and struck the white ball with the best of his abilities. He didn’t score, but he perfectly positioned the balls for whoever was going next.

“Thank you for that,” Leah said smugly as she stepped up to take her turn. John rolled his eyes in good humor and stepped back to make room for her. She expertly leaned over and struck with a force that John was not expecting, and two striped balls beelined directly into the same pocket. John whistled low in appreciation while Sean applauded beside him. Leah stood back up and tossed her blonde hair in mock-smugness.

“Yeah, right, just hitting for fun?” John joked. She laughed and nudged his shoulder playfully.

“Well it would be fun, if you boys could keep up.”

John’s laughter ceased the moment he looked over Leah’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of Tony watching the two of them. He studied them with small, dark eyes and a twitching lip as he chalked up his cue. John frowned back at him, wondering what his problem was. Then, Tony’s sharp gaze quickly darted to Leah, and her footing seemed to falter under the brief but scornful gaze. She immediately looked down at her feet as though embarrassed and shifted away from John. Tony returned his glare to John as he stepped up to the table.

“You play often, Phil?” he asked as he leaned down and took aim.

“Not at all, actually.”

Tony struck, and a solid ball zipped into the nearest pocket. “Yeah, thought not.”

John averted his eyes from him, and the moment passed. Though now, as the five of them kept rotating about the table, the room stayed in relative silence. Leah no longer joked with him and somehow managed to avoid even standing beside him as they awaited their turns. After a few more rounds, Victor excused himself to grab a bite from the fridge in the lounge. John looked after him. Then, wanting to escape this nightmarish obligation to socialize, he took the opportunity to excuse himself as well. Maybe he could even do some investigating, he thought. It’d be nice to have a proper update for Sherlock tonight. 

The thought of their impending phone call made his stomach twist in knots. Despite their argument last night, and despite his irritation at what Sherlock expected of him, he found that he still wanted to do a good job. It sickened him - how he knew he was being used as a tool and yet he still wanted to play the part as best as he could, solely to satisfy Sherlock. God, it made him feel pathetic - like a little pet wagging his tail as he took orders. 

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed Victor to the lounge. If he was lucky, he could make his escape without having to make any excuses.

“Fancy an apple?” Victor asked with forced politeness as he dug two ripe out of the fridge.

“No thanks, I already ate,” he said. “I was just going to use the loo.”

“No, I insist. Have one.”

John tried to pass by him, but something about Victor’s voice seemed to physically halt him. John looked between him and the apple in his outstretched palm and then took it cautiously. Victor smiled as he took a large bite out of his own, carefully watching John until he brought the apple up to his mouth. The crunchy sound of his teeth sinking into the sweet fruit seemed to fill the room, as did his slow, deliberate chewing. Though Victor seemed unfazed, calmly watching him as he chewed and swallowed the juices and skin. All the while, John watched him with curious eyes. He would be lying if he said the possibility of the apple being poised didn’t enter his head. He forced the ridiculous thought out of his head. 

“How was your night?” Victor asked.  

John nodded and took another small bite. “Fine.”

“You slept well?” Victor’s eyes remained locked solidly on his, confident and mischievous.

“I’d say so,” he replied.

“Don’t like staying up late, huh?”

“No. Not my thing.”

“Hm,” Victor drawled in mock-thought. “So it must’ve been someone else I heard talking on the phone then.”

John’s skin flashed hot in panic. An unnerving smile stretched across Victor’s lips the longer he failed to produce a reply. All John could do was force a confused look on his face and tilt his head in question. Play dumb. Always a safe strategy.

But Victor’s eyes only lit up in mischievous glee. “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m really not,” John replied a bit too quickly.

“So, you won’t mind if I tell Evans about your little late-night chat?”

John smirked. “That desperate to feel important, eh?”

The line tumbled out of his mouth before he had even thought about it, but he could tell he had struck a chord.  Victor’s angry sputtering fueled his confidence. Despite the fact that his heart was still pounding away with fear, he stepped up with all the boldness he could muster and placed a hand on Victor’s shoulder.

“Think of it this way. I’m a key player here. You’re a tag along. And I don’t think Evans would appreciate the fact that you’ve been spying on and harassing his most important connection.”

John surprised even himself with the coolness in his voice. As he looked at Victor, he thought back to what he had said last night at the dinner table - about what a good shag Sherlock was. John studied his brown eyes, his dark, curly hair pulled back in a bun, his frowning lip, and tried not to imagine Sherlock in any kind of embrace with him. He tried not to picture Victor’s skinny little fingers on Sherlock’s skin, nor his eyes on his body. It sickened him. John wanted to wipe the memories from Victor’s brain so he could never reimagine them again. 

Victor continued to glare down at him, though his twitching lips gave no reply. Satisfied with himself, John patted him on the shoulder condescendingly and turned around. As much as he wanted to get away from Victor as quickly as possible, he forced himself to slow down his walk, really sell the act. And, he wasn’t going to lie, it felt good to one-up Sherlock’s ex - especially one that talked about him in such vulgar terms. If it was up to him, Victor would never even be allowed to say his name again.

He could feel his eyes trailing him all the way back to the hallway, where John knew he would have to return to the recreation room now that he was being watched so closely. So much for investigating, he thought.

Once he was out of Victor’s sight, his thoughts filled with the anxiety he had been suppressing, wondering what Victor had overhead last night. Most likely nothing important. If he had heard anything substantive, surely he would have brought it up. It seemed the only thing he knew was that John had been talking to someone. That itself wouldn’t be enough to get him in trouble, really. But it was way too close of a call. He would have to be far more careful from now on.  

As John approached the recreation room, voices that were both soft and harsh leaked through the crack in the door. He peeked inside again and saw Leah with her arms crossed, backed against the pool table while Tony stood right in front of her. They were clearly in the midst of an argument, though their voices were so low John couldn’t decipher anything. He slowly back-tracked away from the door, having no desire to get caught in the middle of whatever was going on. Stepping as lightly as he could, he passed by the room. 

It was only when he heard the sound of a light smack and a small shriek that he froze in his tracks. He backed up and looked inside again, and saw Leah clutching her beet-red cheek with tears in her eyes.

“Hey!” John said, pushing the door open and marching forward. He pulled Tony back by his collar and pushed him away from her with a hard shove to his chest. “What the  _ hell _ is wrong with you?!”

Tony wheeled around, his eyes blazing with fury. He shoved him back even harder, making him stumble back into the wall.

“Mind your fucking business,” he spat.

John tried to move between the two of them, but Tony cocked his arm back and swung at him with full force. He managed to duck in the nick of time, and Tony’s fist collided with the wall instead.

“Fuck!” he yelled in pain. He pulled his fist out of the dent in the wall and grabbed John by the front of his shirt. John locked his hand around his wrist, fully prepared to sprain it, when a voice came at the entrance.

“What the hell is going on here?”

They both turned to find Sean and Victor in the doorway. Standing between them was Evans, steaming with rage. Tony released his hold on John and they both straightened themselves out. Evans whipped his sunglasses off, revealing his scathing glare, which he directed at each of them in turn, including Leah.

“What happened? Did Phil make a move on Leah?” Victor asked loudly.

Evans and Sean both turned on him, completely outraged. John couldn’t believe the unfairness of it all. He put his hands up and created some space between himself and a still fuming Tony.

“No. I didn’t. You have no idea what was going on.”

“Care to explain it then?” Victor said, cocking his eyebrow confidently.

“What’s going on is Phil needs to stay in his fucking place,” Tony said.

“Both of you shut up,” Evans barked, immediately silencing everyone. “You, you, and you, meeting now. Room 11,” he said, pointing at John, Tony, and Sean.

After a few heated glares were exchanged, the three of them followed him out, leaving Victor and Leah behind. Tony knocked John’s shoulder as he brushed in front of him, then shot a scathing look over his shoulder John sighed defeatedly and rubbed the back of his head, wondering how on earth he was going to tell Sherlock that he’d managed to make not one, but two enemies here in the course of a single morning.

***

Room 11 turned out to be another bedroom that had been cleared out and repurposed. A large table sat in the center, filling up nearly the whole thing. John, Tony, Sean, and Evans each selected one of the tall chairs surrounding it and settled in.

Tony sat across from him, quietly seething with barely contained contempt. Sean, meanwhile, seemed to be avoiding eye contact with either one of them. Instead, he fixed his gaze towards Evans in a forced, almost unnatural way. John forced himself to sit up straighter rather than shrink under Tony’s glare, if only in a show of defiance.

“So. Now that we’re all behaving like adults again,” Evans started.

Tony waited another moment before peeling his eyes away from John. The moment no one was looking at him anymore, John allowed himself to release the tension he'd been holding in his body.

“First off, some news,” Evans said. “Unfortunately, there was a break-in last night.” All three of them snapped to attention at this. “When I arrived this morning, a window was cracked open and the screen was torn. Naturally, I went right to the office. Found it unlocked. Nothing was taken, but we need to be more vigilant. I don’t know who did it, but if someone’s after us, we need to keep our eyes peeled. Got it?”

Tony and Sean nodded, while John’s mind raced to take notes. He hadn’t come across an office yet, but whatever was kept in there, it was clearly important. 

“Next. Updates,” Evans continued. “Tony. How are we with money?”

“Everything’s on track.”

“Ironically,” Sean added.

“What?” Tony asked.

“You know. The bank . . .”

Tony rolled his eyes. John looked between the two of them, trying to work out the meaning of their exchange. The bank? As in The Bank of England? What did that have to do with anything?

“Not really the time for puns, Sean,” Evans said. Sean lowered his eyes. “Any update on our arms suppliers?”

“All locked down,” he mumbled.

“Good. Now Phil,” Evans said, leaning into the table and speaking directly to John. “We didn’t cover much on the phone, but now that you’re here, I can tell you what I need from you.”

John nodded for him to continue, trying to keep from fidgeting too much in apprehension. Far too much rested on what was about to happen here. 

“We’ve got four guys who are handling most of the logistics. The problem was that none of them knew me when I first approached them. They didn’t trust me. Thought I might be setting them up. And you know, I respected that. I like my men to be cautious. But I needed someone who could act as a mediator between us. That’s where you come in. They’ll trust you as an arms dealer, so you’re going to communicate to them everything I need them to do. Be my eyes and ears so to speak. My representative.”

John nodded along. His brain was on overload trying to memorize his each and every word so he could relay it to Sherlock. This was fantastic, he thought. Phil had a much more important role here than he realized. 

“Do you understand?” Evans asked.

“Yeah, definitely. So . . . who are these men?”

Evans smiled at him. Actually smiled. John had to suppress a shiver at the unnatural sight.

“You get that information the day of,” he said.

His hopes deflated, but he nodded in understanding, purposefully ignoring Tony’s gleeful smirk.

“Not as much on the in-team as you thought, huh?” Tony said.

“Tony, come on,” Sean said quietly.

John ignored them both and went over everything Evans had just told him.  _ The day of. _ He knew instinctively that he couldn’t ask when that was. It seemed that everyone here knew when the attack was happening. Asking here, especially in front of Tony and Sean, would be far too suspicious.

No matter. He had plenty to tell Sherlock. Four arms suppliers . . . four? Why did they need four? In fact, why did Evans need so much help here? There seemed to be an awful lot of effort going into burning down a hospital. Why not just do it, he wondered. Especially if he already has the contacts and supplies locked down.

“Questions?” Evans asked him.

“Not right now. You’re keeping this under really tight wraps. I understand,” John said. “No problem.”

Evans fixed him with a serious look. “Phil. I have been planning this for far longer than you could possibly imagine.”

John swallowed nervously. It was like a supervillain line taken directly from a movie, made complete by the murderous glint in his eyes and the low lighting cast over his face.

“I went about it myself for way too long,” he continued. “It only came together when I found the right people,” he said, gesturing to Tony and Sean. “Similar backgrounds. Similar stories. And experiences.”

Oh perfect, a monologue, John thought, wishing he could take notes.

“I lost my daughter, Phil,” Evans said, pausing for a moment. “No one who doesn’t have a child could possibly understand the pain that causes. You can’t  _ possibly _ know how I feel driving past that damned building every goddamn day. Past the people who killed her. No one believes when I say how little they care about us. They don’t care about your lives. Our lives. Do you think they care about your life, Phil?”

John felt frozen in his seat. He thought about how his dream was once to work at that hospital, to wear the white coat and the stethoscope and be a hero to all those he could help. But he clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

“No,” Evans agreed. “They don’t. But no one listens when you tell them that, do they? Not unless they’ve also felt the pain of being  _ discarded _ and  _ ignored  _ by those who are supposed to help you.” He spat the words like venom. His jaw was clenched so tight between sentences, John worried his teeth might break. “Whether it’s in a hospital, in government, in education,” he continued, nodding at Tony and Sean in acknowledgement. “People with power – too much power – those who make the decisions that ruin people’s lives – they never care.”

He looked directly at John with stone cold eyes. “Do they?” he asked.

John couldn’t find his voice, but he managed a single, sheepish nod. Evans lips curled up into a sinister smile. The jagged scar over his eye twisted under the movement. “Good man. I knew you’d understand.”

John forced a tight-lipped smile. All eyes in the room remained on him. Moment after moment passed. The silence in the room was delicate as glass. No one dared to be the first to speak before Evans. 

“Unfortunately, that’s all I have for you, Phil,” he said after a while. “I’ll fill you in on everything else next week.”

“Yes, sir,” John said, though he felt his hopes once again drain out of him. He’d miss out on the rest of the meeting, but at the same time, he was glad to get away from Evans and his cryptic words and unnerving stares. All three men watched him as he scooted his chair back, creating a loud squeak on the hardwood floor. He let himself out, and the door shut slowly behind him, locking him out of everything going on on the other side of it. After a moment, he pressed his ear against the door, but all he could make out were vague mumbles.

“Dammit,” he hissed.

He stepped back and looked the massive door up and down. His chest rose and fell in a sigh of defeat. Well so much for that, he thought. As he made his way back to the lounge, he mentally repeated everything he’d learned so he could repeat it to Sherlock.

There was an office. A really important office that someone had apparently broken into. The team was in great shape for their attack in terms of funding and supplies. Phil had an important job to do involving four contacts – perfect opportunity for sabotage. The attack was apparently happening something next week. Of everything he’d learned in that meeting, perhaps that was the most important piece. A timeline.

_ Office, funding, contacts, timeline. Office funding, contacts, timeline, _ he repeated to himself. Just as he was about to enter the lounge, he heard a quiet sniffling coming from one of the nearby bedrooms. It was a woman crying. Leah.

He followed the sound to the source. The door to the bedroom was already cracked open, so he eased it open a bit further, creating a soft creak. Leah immediately looked up from where she was sitting on the bed.

“Oh, Phil,” she said, quickly swiping the tears off her face.

“Hey,” John said, coming in the room. “You okay?”

She forced on a smile, but with the burning red in her eyes and smudges of makeup under her lashes, she was fooling no one. She let out a long, heavy breath as John sat next to her on the bed.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He listened to the soft hitches in her breath as she tried to calm herself down. He didn’t know what to say to her, or if it was his place to say anything at all, regardless of what he thought of her and Tony’s relationship. Though perhaps there was nothing to say. It seemed Leah already knew what the problem was.

“Do you want a glass of water or something?” he said.

“No, thank you.” She wiped her hands over her eyes again. “Thanks for . . . what you did. Earlier.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

She forced out a quick, harsh laugh. “He was mad because of you.”

John nodded. He’d pieced together as much. “Look, um. Sorry. I guess. Maybe I shouldn’t have-”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize. Tony’s a jealous piece of shit. You did nothing wrong.”

The shaking anger in her voice surprised him. He stole a quick glance at her. “Why are you with him?” he asked in a soft, gentle tone.

Leah shook her head and blinked away more tears. “Honestly, Phil. I don’t know. But he’s all I have right now.”  John respectfully averted his eyes as she gathered herself. “I don’t know. I’m just in a fucking horrible place right now,” she laughed. But it was that same forced, wet laughter laced with shame and remorse. “I guess I just need to feel loved sometimes, and Tony gives me that. Makes me feel a bit more grounded. Otherwise I’d have nothing. Wow, okay. That makes me sound so pathetic.” A short, wet sob erupted from her.

“It’s okay,” John said.

“I guess sometimes we find that one person who’s exactly what you need at a certain point in your life. Even if they’re an ass sometimes. You know what I mean? No, I’m probably just rambling.”

“No, I do,” he found himself saying quickly. 

She perked up slightly. “You do?”

He smiled softly to himself. Not too long ago, he’d found himself in a place similar to Leah – with nothing and no one. And through it all, Sherlock had been his solace. His savior. And in a matter of days, he’d become his everything.

“I do,” he repeated, though his voice now felt thicker in his throat. “I had a person like that. But uhh. . . not anymore,” he added as his heart began to stiffen with remorse once again. “Things kind of went downhill.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” Leah said.

John remembered the wounded look in Sherlock’s eyes when he’d told him off right before getting in Tony’s van. Guilt gnawed at his sides, despite the fact that it was he who had been so heartlessly manipulated. Right? So it was  _ Sherlock _ who had messed it up. Not him.

But then why did he feel so endlessly ashamed of how he’d behaved? Why did he still – for whatever reason – want to impress Sherlock, want to do right by him and earn his favor? What was the the source of all this crippling guilt?

For the first time, he considered without any reservations whether a small part of the blame was to be placed on him. After all, it was he who’d gotten offended when his and Sherlock’s relationship didn’t proceed at the exact pace he’d wanted. He was the one who’d lashed out and been so harsh when maybe, he should have given him the benefit of the doubt. After all they’d been through, didn’t he owe him at least that much?

“It kind of was my fault,” John answered, looking down at his feet.

“Well,” Leah continued. “You know, sometimes these people that seem to waltz into our lives at the perfect time are just – that. Just temporary. I know Tony is for me. So . . . maybe she was only meant to be in your life for that short glimpse. And you’ll spend your forever with someone else.”

John tried to nod but his head suddenly felt solidified in place on his neck. His forever? As in, a lifetime partner? He’d never thought of himself as the type to settle down in the traditional sense. But maybe Leah was right. Maybe all this adventure was temporary, and in five or ten years, he’d be settled with a wife and kids like everyone else his age. He tried to imagine it: A kind-faced woman with pretty eyes and chestnut hair. The white picket fence. A little toddler running barefoot through the yard. Everything he felt like he  _ should _ have wanted from life.

But that thought only left him feeling cold and disconnected. That life felt empty. Purposeless and unfulfilled.

Without warning, a pale face with sharp cheekbones and piercing aquamarine eyes faded into his mind’s eye. And faster than blinking, that nauseating discontentment vanished and was replaced with blossoming warmth.

John realized Leah was still watching him, waiting for a reply. He gave her a quick smile and nod, and she sighed and rested her face in her palms. Her shoulders shuddered with a silent sob, and John’s heart ached for her, knowing it could’ve been him in her place – he could have found someone like Tony in his time of need, but he’d gotten lucky, and she hadn’t. She’d found her temporary placeholder, and he’d found his . . . his Sherlock. 

His. . . forever? Did he want Sherlock to be with him forever? His heart fluttered at the unexpected thought. A future with Sherlock. It was not something he had considered, but now that the thought had entered his head, a part of him wanted it -  _ ached _ for it more than a starving man craved a fruit that was barely out of his reach. And with each moment that his heart swelled with his newfound need for Sherlock, crushing guilt wrapped around him, choking it off as he remembered it was no longer possible. That he had ruined what was once a beautiful thing between them. 

A soft sob next to him pulled him back to reality. John cautiously reached out and put his arm across Leah’s back. As if physically drawn by the touch, she leaned into him. But as soon as her head touched his shoulder, a loud bang caused them both to bolt upright.

“What was that?” he said. They exchanged equally lost looks. 

John stood up and rushed out to the hallway, with Leah following behind him. There, he saw Evans crossing the lounge and marching down the hall that led towards his room. Tony, Sean, and Victor all trailed behind him.

Confused, John followed them and watched silently as Evans opened his bedroom door and entered.

“Hey,” he said, hurrying to them and shouldering past a sneering Victor. 

Sean stepped out of his way, quickly lowering his gaze to avoid eye contact. Inside his room, Evans was opening every drawer and digging none too gently through the contents. Tony threw his sheets back and discarded them sloppily to the floor.

“Hey, what’s this about?” John protested.

“Nothing personal, Phil,” Tony said, now unzipping every pocket of the backpack he’d stolen from the real Phil.

Evans slammed the drawers shut and stalked right up to him. “Where were you last night?” he asked plainly.

John looked around the room – at Tony watching him expectantly, at Sean nervously fidgeting with his sleeves, at Victor eagerly awaiting his answer. For the life of him, he could not understand how he had gone from being invited to their top-secret meeting to being under such scrutiny.

He looked back to Evans, who was watching him with those grey, hawkish eyes that made his skin crawl. “I was here,” he said.

“The entire night?” Evans asked.

“Of course.”

“I told you someone broke into our office last night.”

John swallowed and felt a sudden flash of heat burn up inside his shirt. He resisted pulling on his collar to fan it out. Did they seriously suspect that he was the thief?

“I know,” he said.

“Okay. So you wanna tell me again where you were?” Evans pushed.

“I was here all night. I swear.” At least it was something he could honestly attest to, he thought with relief.

Evans sidled up to his full height and stared down at him. John remained firm in his stance as those beady eyes looked between his own, assessing their honesty. Finally, he seemed satisfied and backed down. Though he didn’t let on, John’s pulse continued to hammer fretfully  in his neck.

“Tony?” Evans asked. Tony tossed aside the now empty bag, which had only contained overnight essentials and clothes.

“Nothing. He’s clean.”

John glanced to where Victor was leaning against the doorframe and saw him scoff in disappointment.

“See, Sean? I told you, the guy’s an ass, but he’s no traitor,” Tony said.

John’s head snapped to Sean, who quickly averted his eyes in shame. Sean had accused him of being the thief? Of all people, he was the one John least suspected would ever sell him out. Though instinctively he knew that whatever Sean may have said about him -  they weren’t really his words. They were Victor’s words being parroted through him. 

Sean sheepishly scurried out of John’s room, followed by Evans, Tony, and Victor, who tossed one last hateful glare over his shoulder.

Once they had all left, John leaned back against the wall and let out a long, heavy breath. He put a hand to his chest and waited for his heartbeat to slowly return to its normal speed.

***

John was silent at dinner. Around him, Victor teased Sean for his choice of a tuna sandwich, Tony told stories and barked out full-bellied laughter at his own narrations, and Leah smiled tightly as he threw his arm around her shoulders.

Everyone seemed to have forgotten that, mere hours ago, they had all suspected John of being a thief and had searched his room without his consent. The event seemed to have been an insignificant blip in their memories as they now carried on in conversation without him.

The three men, apart from Evans, launched into a joint story that involved all of them. John was left out of their reminiscence, and he was alright with that. It seemed the room had forgotten he was there, aside from the sympathetic glances Leah would spare him every now and then.

In fact, John spaced out so hard that he didn’t even realize when everyone else had finished eating and the table was cleared to make way for a skinny, silver briefcase. Sean opened the latch and lifted the lid, revealing rows of circular, colored chips and a deck of cards.

“You play, Phil?” he asked as he began separating the chips into piles.

“No,” he answered honestly.

“That’s fine. We’ll teach you.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m going to turn in soon anyway,”

“Oh, no. You’re playing,” Sean pushed with a hesitant smile. Perhaps he felt guilty for falsely accusing him earlier, John thought.

“You’ll do fine,” Victor added. “Now that you know you can successfully lie to all of us.”

“Victor, come on. Drop it,” Sean said. Victor shot a scornful glance at John and then gathered his chips in front of him.

“Seriously, you guys go ahead,” John said. He pushed his chair back and rose up before they could protest again. Sean’s face fell and Tony rolled his eyes.

“Gotta redistribute now,” he grumbled.

John lifted his hand. “Goodnight, everyone.”

He got a few mumbles in return, and a genuine smile from Leah. With that, he turned down the hallway and walked down to his bedroom. He paused in front of his door with his hand on the handle. It was only 7, o’clock, he thought. He still had another five hours before he had to call Sherlock. Five hours to himself where he knew everyone else in the motel would be engrossed in a game. He pulled his hand back from the knob and looked down the rest of the hallway that he hadn’t explored yet.

He had to find that office.

***

John tested the handle of every single room on both sides of his hallway, but to no avail. When he reached the end, it split off into two paths. He chose the left side on a whim and continued testing each door.

Finally, about halfway down, one of them opened. Inside, he found himself in another sort of meeting area. There were two closet doors on each side, each accompanied by a wall phone right outside it. Peeking into the window of the first one, he saw that it was just a normal, empty closet.

The second one, however, contained a desk with a computer, shelves with countless books and binders, taped off boxes, a whiteboard, and a bulletin board. The office. His pulse raced faster and faster, knowing that this room contained the answers to everything he and Sherlock needed to know. He turned the door handle, only to find it locked.

_ Shit, _ he thought.

He looked around and noticed a mini fridge in the main room. It was unplugged. Anything inside surely would have gone bad by now. But that meant this room has been used to store and possibly prepare meals. Surely then, there would be something here he could use.

He rushed to the countertop and began tearing open cabinet after cabinet. He found useless office supplies like empty tape rolls and worn-down notepads. There was a drawer that consisted entirely of coasters, and one that had empty plastic containers.  Then finally, he found a drawer of cutlery. He selected a slim knife and hurried back to the door.

The blade perfectly fit in the slit of the lock. When it was as far back as it could go, he applied heavy pressure in one direction and then switched, wriggling it back and forth. At last, he heard a click, and gave a silent cheer. The door eased open with the slightest push, and he was in.

The office was dark inside, illuminated only by the dim evening light coming in through the window. John sat himself at the desk chair, unsure of where to even begin. The computer was probably password protected, there were too many books to weed through. . . But he had limited time and one chance to do this right - there was no way he’d risk his luck coming back here a second time.

A loud cheer erupted from far outside the room, and John’s head snapped to the door in brief panic. They were still playing poker then. He had some time, but he had to hurry.

He pulled open the desk drawer, hoping to find some kind of scrap of paper, anything, with a password on it. There was nothing. He pushed his fringe off his forehead. Sweat was starting to dampen his skin. Then, he remembered the wall phone outside the closet. He reached outside and pulled it in as far as the cord would allow, and then dialed his cell number.  His leg jittered as he hoped and prayed that Sherlock was home or at least had his phone on him. As he waited, another round of loud laughter came from the lounge, and he glanced to the door again. The line connected after a few rings, and John audibly breathed out in relief.

“Hello?” came a familiar, deep voice.

“Sherlock. I need help.”

“John. Are you okay? It’s only 8:00. What’s going on?”

“I’m in an office. They have everything here – all their books, binders, a computer. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to look, or how much time I have. We have to hurry.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Okay, don’t panic.  Can you log into the computer?”

“No. I need a password.”

Sherlock paused. “Is it Evans’ computer?”

“Probably.”

“Try . . . Kira. His wife.”

John typed the four letters with his index fingers. “Nope.”

“Try it with a two ‘e’s.”

“Doesn’t work.”

“Try Chelsea.”

“How do you spell it?”

“I don’t know.

John tried C-H-E-L-S-E-Y and then C-H-E-L-S-E-A.

“That’s it. We’re in,” he said, watching the desktop load. With each new icon that popped up, his leg seemed to jitter faster and faster.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said. “What do you see?”

John clicked on the browser, and a pre-signed into email account opened up. “Yes,” he whispered in celebration.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“His email. Hang on, I’m looking at the most recent stuff.”

Starred as important was an email from a mysterious looking account with only symbols as the address. He opened it and clicked on the attachment at the bottom.

“It’s a map,” John said. “Someone sent him a marked-up map of London.”

Sherlock gasped on the other end.  “Hang on,” he said. John heard the sound of paper flipping – presumably his notebook. “Okay, John. What exactly do you see? Be precise.”

John squinted at the screen. “There are four – no, five locations marked. Then the roads between them are highlighted and numbered as well.”

“Are the bookmarked locations St. Bart’s, the Bank of England, the Palace of Westminster, Buckingham Palace, and Imperial College London?”

John checked it over. “Yes. . . how did you know that?”

“I went back to Evans’ house today. I think he has the same map pinned up on his bedroom wall. Same markings.”

“What does it mean?”

There was an ominous pause on Sherlock’s line. “That St. Bart’s isn’t the only target.”

John felt his face physically pale. “Oh my god . . .”

“John, focus. What else do you see?”

John returned to the inbox and looked at the other starred emails. His back was sweating and his skin seemed to have flushed ice cold. “He’s contacting lots of arms smugglers. I mean, lots. Presumably arsonists but. . . hang on. Wait.”

“What?”

“Sherlock. . . They’re bombers. He’s contacting bombers.” His stomach felt more and more hollow as he scrolled through the list of contacts, the full-blown explosives Evans was collecting. Near the bottom, he came across another attachment – a PDF labeled “Anarchy.”

He opened it and found a neatly compiled list of each target along with which bombers were assigned to the area at which time. With bile rising in his throat, he remembered how Evans had raged about the poor treatment he’d received from the hospital, the lack of attention from government and social service providers that were supposed to care for the public. He remembered Sherlock deducing how broke Tony and Sean both were. These men all had resentments against London’s most important establishments – they aimed to destroy it all.

“Sherlock. . . oh my god,” he breathed.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “It’s okay, John. It’ll be okay. This is much bigger than we thought, but we just need to think.”

“Sherlock, we can’t stop this by ourselves. We need to call the police.”

“Just hang on a minute. Let me think.” John could hear him pacing the flat in stress. “Okay, listen to me. Here’s what I need you to do. I need-”

All of a sudden, the line went dead. John looked down at the phone and then put it back to his ear. “Sherlock?” he asked. No response. Not even a bit of static. “Sherlock?” he called again.

He lowered the phone from his ear and turned around. Immediately, his insides turned to stone. Victor stood right outside the office, his finger on the button that had ended their call. He locked eyes with John, and his lips curled up into a devilish grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Someone got caught... 🙊
> 
> Like I said last time, the boys won't be apart too much longer, so stay tuned ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic torture.

John tugged against the restraints holding his wrists together, but the twine only bit further into his chafed, raw skin. He had been pulling for what felt like hours, though it was hard to judge the passage of time being left alone in a pitch-black room. It might have even been a full day, for all he knew. His feet were similarly fastened to each of the chair’s front legs, though no matter how he pulled and twisted, his ankle restraints wouldn’t budge an inch either.

He turned his head and blinked rapidly, trying to catch sight of something – anything – but regardless of how long he stayed trapped in this darkness, his eyes would not adjust in the slightest. His chest heaved in increasing panic at the thought that Evans and his men might just let him starve here. Perhaps this was some sick form of psychological torture – to leave him wondering how much time had passed, when someone would come, when he would get food. If that was their intention, it was indeed effective.

Between Evans, Tony, Sean, and Victor, John had been easily overpowered once his cover was blown. He’d fought back as much as he could, and had even landed a few good blows in the scuffle. But everything he dealt out was returned to him with at least thrice the magnitude. He could feel the stickiness where his hair was matted down with blood. His lip was torn, and he knew there were at least a few bruised ribs under his shirt. But despite it all, it wasn’t his safety he was concerned about. No matter what, he decided, no matter how they hurt him or what they did, he would tell them nothing.

Somewhere in the room, a lock clicked. The door flew open, and the lights flicked on. Immediately, John flinched away from the blinding brightness assaulting his senses.

“Well, well,” said a familiar voice, followed by multiple footsteps. His heart hammered against his ribs as they surrounded him. He kept his face turned and his eyes pinched shut, still unable to face the burning intensity of the light. The door shut behind them with a loud bang, and he couldn’t help but flinch again.

“I should’ve believed you about him, Victor,” Evans said as he circled behind the chair. “All those excuses. Going to bed early, the phone calls, the break-in . . . It was only a matter of time before you got caught, wasn’t it?”

John could feel the man’s shadow looming over him. Suddenly, large fingers twisted into his hair and yanked his head back.

_ “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” _

Every system in John’s body screeched to a terrified halt. A drop of spit landed on his cheek. He forced his eyes open, and there in front of him was Evans, bent over to look him directly in the eye. His thin lips curled up in that familiar, sinister smile.

“That’s better.”

John blinked rapidly at him. He realized he'd stopped breathing altogether when his lungs began to burn. In all his time here, he had never heard Evans yell before. It left him feeling like he’d just stared death in the eye.

Evans searched his face while his grip on his hair never relented; John’s neck strained from the uncomfortable angle. In his peripheral vision, he saw Victor by the door, silently watching with an amused smile, and Sean beside him, uncomfortably averting his eyes.

“What’s your name?” Evans asked. John looked back to him and swallowed.

“John,” he said after a few seconds.

“Well, John.” He released his hair and took hold of his jaw instead. “I think it’ll be nice for you to finally talk to me as a man, and not a phony.”

His grip on his jaw was gentle – in another context, it might have been seen as tender, perhaps even affectionate. But right now, all it did was make John’s stomach churn in disgust. With a menacing glint in his eyes, his gaze travelled over his face and restrained body. And John was suddenly all too conscious of the vulnerability of his position – ankles tied and knees forced apart for Evans to stand between.

“Wanna tell me what you were doing in that office?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” he said through gritted teeth.

Evans stared for a moment and then smirked. “That was cute. A little attitude is always healthy. And makes this a lot more fun, if I’m honest.”

John tilted his head in confusion.

“Oh, cut the bull,” Evans said. “I know you’re not as naïve and clueless as you pretend to be. It’s just a matter of figuring out what’ll break you.”

“What does that even mean?” John asked.

Evans looked at him for a moment. Then, his eyes lit up, as if something had just clicked in his head. His thumb brushed gently over John’s chin, making his insides writhe in repulsion. “It means you’ll give me what I want, and if I’m right about you. . .” Evans looked him over in amusement. “I don’t even think you’ll mind it.”

John’s stomach threatened to upheave everything inside it. He thought he even felt a little hot, acidic vomit rise up in his throat. His body begged to physically recoil from Evans’ sickeningly tender touches, but he couldn’t move an inch. Evans seemed to thrive off his discomfort. The horrifying smile on his face only grew the longer he squirmed.

“Tell me where Sherlock is,” he said.

John stubbornly kept his lips pressed. Though his heart sunk at the confirmation that they knew who he was talking to on the phone – A small part of him had still hoped that Victor miraculously hadn’t heard him say his name into the receiver. He tried to jerk out of Evans’ grip, but his hold tightened so hard, John worried he might break a molar.

“Don’t be silly. We’ve been working on tracking your outgoing calls since we locked you in here. We’ll find out where he is eventually.” A bolt of terror struck him, but John swallowed and kept his gaze steady. “It’s just easier if you tell us. So, go on. Tell me.”

He sucked up all the saliva in his mouth and – as forcefully as he could – spit it directly into Evans’ eye. To his pleasure, Evans immediately flinched backwards. Using two fingers, he slowly wiped the spit away and turned his murderous glare back on John. For a moment, he wondered if he was going to hit him. He braced himself for a strike to the face, but the door burst open, and there stood a triumphant Tony looking between the two of them.  

“We’ve got him,” he said. All the color drained from John’s face.  

 

**********

 

When Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing he noticed was the massive throbbing in his right temple. The skin was inflamed from the brutal blow he’d taken when two men attacked him in John’s flat. If his guess was right, a decent-sized bump had probably formed by now. He tried to reach up and rub the tender spot but found that his hands were secured behind his back. His eyes snapped open and he bolted up in alertness.

“Welcome back,” came a voice that chilled him to the bone. “Well, Sherlock, I’m fascinated to hear what you have to say for yourself,” Evans started. “You run away from me. You invade my privacy, try to sabotage my work, and then you send some sloppy fool to come spy on me? Go on, Sherlock. Tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed to the floor and his mouth sealed.

“Talk to me, Sherlock. I don’t want to have to do this.”

When he didn’t respond, Evans sighed and nodded to Victor, whose entire face lit up like a Christmas tree. It was then that Sherlock noticed the baton in his hands. With a jolt of horror, he pressed back into the chair and shook his head.

“No, wait . . .” he started. But the baton swung at him with full force, striking him across the face.  

Immediately, his mouth filled with spurts of hot blood. Before he could recover, Victor struck him again in the same place. Then again on the opposite side. Sherlock couldn’t process anything but the onslaught of hot, pulsating pain. He couldn’t feel anything but the metal on his skin and bone, couldn’t see anything but the black blur swinging repeatedly at his face. He might have even lost consciousness at some point. Blood coated his nose, chin, neck, and probably his shirt, too. When the brutal assault finally slowed, his head hung limply, as he was drained of all strength to keep it up.  

He spit out some of the blood in his mouth. “I want. . . to see John,” he managed weakly. “I want to see him. I need to know he’s okay.”

“But do you really think he wants to see you?” Evans asked, circling a finger in front of his face. “Especially like this.”

Every ounce of will left in Sherlock’s body seeped out of him, and he went limp in the chair.

“Oh Sherlock,” came Evans’ patronizing voice. Three fingers tilted his chin up. “Use your head. How do you think we knew where to find you?” Sherlock searched his face for the answer but found nothing. “He sold you out.”

“No,” Sherlock shot back instantly. John would never. They might be upset with each other, but he would never . . . he wouldn’t . . .

“Don’t look so surprised,” Evans said. “It’s your fault he’s here, isn’t it? He’s furious with you.”

Unwilling tears prickled in his eyes. His heart burned with shame at the weakness he was showing, at how deeply the alleged betrayal hurt him.

“And unfortunately for you, he’s also being a bit stubborn,” Evans continued. “Which is why I came to you instead.”

Sherlock’s head dropped back down when Evans removed his fingers. A few drops of blood dripped onto his trousers. John couldn’t have sold him out. In his heart, he knew that. But he also knew the look that had been in John’s eyes the last time they’d seen each other – the utter contempt and dismissal that had darkened them. He knew that he’d promised to keep John safe, and that it truly was his fault that he got caught. That John had every right to be angry with him. Every justification for betraying him.

The pressure built in his chest until it couldn’t be contained, and he let out a single, dry sob.

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Evans took a deep breath. “Victor, go get him a glass of water.”

Sherlock heard the door open and close, and then silence as the two of them were left alone.

“Sherlock. Look at me.”

He lifted his head.

“I forgive you for leaving,” Evans said earnestly. “No hard feelings.”

Sherlock remained silent, only focusing on breathing in and out. Evans’ offer of a fresh start between them was all too transparent – all trust had been lost between them the moment he’d pulled the trigger on Janine. This was a man who lied, played by his own rules, and had no qualms killing anyone who was no longer immediately useful to him. Sherlock’s face darkened as he remembered the light permanently fading from Janine’s eyes, the coolness with which Evans ordered him to murder his old friend, the empty drawers in Irene’s bedroom. 

“What happened to Irene?” he demanded.

“She left. Not long after you.”

Relief flooded Sherlock’s heart. He lowered his head to hide the small twitch of his lips. Good old Irene. Wonderful Irene. He swelled with pride knowing that the same woman who’d always berated him and Janine for running away had finally gotten the chance to do it herself.

The door opened and Victor came back in with a glass of water. Evans took it and gently tipped a bit into Sherlock’s mouth. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but eagerly swallow every drop that was offered to him.

“You must be desperate for a fix,” Evans said, pulling the glass away and handing it off.

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m off the stuff.”

Evans reached forward and rolled up his sleeves. Sherlock turned his head away in shame of the red scratches that he knew marred his arm.

“Your lovely skin says otherwise.” His thumb brushed the inner crook of his arm. Perhaps it was meant to be comforting, but it only made Sherlock’s skin crawl with disgust and hatred. “Come on. One hit. And then we’ll have a nice chat.”

Sherlock’s skin tingled in the spot where Evans’ thumb gently circled. The sweet release of the needle was the most alluring thing that could’ve been offered to him. All his pain would go away. He wouldn’t think of John, he wouldn’t feel the blood drying on his clothes, caking on his skin, he wouldn’t feel so cold, so sore, so alone.

With every ounce of strength he had, he gave a single shake of his head. Evans’ eyes darkened, and he removed his hand, leaving Sherlock’s skin feeling bare and vulnerable.

“Very well,” he said. “I suppose I’ll just have to visit John again. He needs to be taken down a notch anyway.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up at this. Evans frowned at the sight of him, and then, his face slowly brightened with glee – like a man who knew he’d just struck gold.

“Of course,” he drawled.

“No, please,” Sherlock begged. “I’ll talk. Just leave John alone.”

But nothing he said stopped the spread of his menacing smile, nor the optimistic twinkle in his normally dark eyes. Sherlock renewed his struggle against his bonds. His heart hammered in his ears. Every cell in his body screamed for release, fought manically to free himself. 

“Please. Leave him alone. I’ll talk.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Evans said. “But I want to be sure.”

With a nod to the corner of the room, he sent Victor off.

 

**********

 

John watched as Sean leaned against the wall, looking anywhere but at him. Both pretended they couldn’t hear Tony and Leah arguing outside. He couldn’t catch everything they were saying, but he caught his name a few times. Sean glanced at the table next to him, and John followed his gaze to the display of weapons on top of it. An impressive collection of guns, bludgeons, knives, and other tools were all laid out, presumably to be used on him. Perhaps that’s what Leah was protesting outside. Though as of right now, he knew they were under orders not to hurt him.

John looked back to Sean, who was staring at the weapons with a sullen expression. Of all the men here, he seemed the most sympathetic to his situation. John figured if he could convince anyone here to help him out, it would be him. But in his heart, he knew it would be a lost cause. There was nothing Sean could do for him now.

“No! I don’t care,” came shouting from outside. The door opened and Tony marched back in. Behind him, Leah looked absolutely livid. 

“Tony, I swear-” she growled at him, trying to squeeze through the door as he pushed it shut.

“Enough, Leah. Just go back to our room.”

“Just let me-!”

Tony shoved her in the chest, and she stumbled out of the doorway. “Get the fuck out of my face,” he spat.

Right before he slammed the door on her, Leah caught John’s gaze over his shoulder. Whereas he expected to see fear, there was a fire in her eyes and a look of determination that he didn’t fully understand. But a moment later, the door was shut, and she was out of sight.

Tony turned around. Judging by the fury on his face, John wondered if Leah had perhaps made things worse for him by pleading for mercy on his behalf.

“You better pray our orders don’t change, Phil.” he said, snatching up a knife from the table and toying with the tip of the blade.

“My name’s John.”

“I don’t care.”

As if on cue, the door opened again, and Victor strutted in like he’d just won the lottery. “We have the green light, guys.”

“Well speak of the devil,” Tony gloated, marching up to John with the knife. John hissed when the sharp blade was shoved up under his jaw. “Did he say I could carve my initials in his face?”

“We can do whatever we want,” Victor said. “As long as it’s loud enough for Sherlock to hear him scream.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. Guilt gnawed at his gut, knowing that Sherlock was going to be put in an impossible position because of him: telling these vile criminals what they were up to or protecting the man who’d rejected him and broken his heart . . . Perhaps not such an impossible decision then, he thought. His heart sunk with misery, like it was weighed down with solid lead.

Tony stuck the knife inside the corner of his parted lips. John’s eyes bulged as he instinctively retreated his tongue from the sharp point.

“No. I have a better idea,” Victor said.

Tony made room as Victor calmly came up and looked him over thoughtfully. Then, he grabbed two handfuls of his shirt and tore it apart in one swift movement.

“Hey!” John protested as his shirt fell open from his neckline in two flaps.

“Oh,” Tony said with a sickening laugh. “Genius.” He rushed back to the table, presumably to retrieve a weapon while John looked down at his exposed chest in confusion.  

Tony quickly returned with a spring in his step – and a blow torch and metal rod in his hands. John’s heart spiked with terror as he put the pieces together. He jerked and pulled, but the restraints kept him firmly tied to the chair.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no. You’re insane.”

Delighted as ever, Tony lit the rod with the torch. When he removed it from the flame, the end glowed orange, with a blinding yellow-white tip. Hot, blazing sparks flew from the ends, landing on the tile floor and fizzing out.

John struggled harder than ever, his heart freezing in cold panic despite the heat of the flame.

“You’re insane,” he repeated in a croaky whisper. He shot a desperate look to Sean, but he only stood uselessly in the corner, acting as though he couldn’t see what was happening.

Tony pressed the rod into his right pec. Agony burst from the spot as his skin was brutally scorched. The ruthless heat ignited his body, filling him up. His scream caught in his throat, threatening to tear his body in half, but he refused to release it. The stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils, and for a moment, he thought he was going to black out.  

Tony removed the rod, and John dropped his head forward, panting in rage. Beside him, Victor laughed cruelly. If his hands weren’t restrained, John knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from punching him in the jaw. As he caught his breath, he noticed orange sparks around Tony’s feet – he had already reheated the rod. The blunted end blazed with a fresh, white-hot heat.

“That was beautiful, but I’m afraid Sherlock needs to hear you,” Tony said.  

John jerked back instinctively. At the same time, he silently begged for him to press it into the same spot. The nerve endings in the area had been scorched to death, so the pain wouldn’t be as intense. But the sadistic bastard knew exactly what he was doing. He aimed for a fresh spot on his chest, exactly where the nerves were fresh, alive, and more sensitive than ever.

“Nice and loud for me, John.”

He couldn’t help that his breath came in raspy pants. He repeated reassurances in his head, bracing himself for the scalding hot metal.

_ Don’t scream, don’t scream, _ he repeated.  _ Don’t give them the satisfaction. _

Tony pressed the rod into him again, and his vision whited out with agony. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, physically shaking from the effort to hold back. But at last, his mouth opened, and an inhuman groan tore out of him.

Smoke danced up around his face. He felt as though his torso was being forcibly split at the spot where the rod pressed harder and harder into him.

“Do you think they could hear that from the other room?” Tony asked, as he removed it and put it back in the blow torch’s flame. John visibly shook with hatred for the two men as he caught his breath again. Murder lit his eyes as he glared up at them with unsullied contempt. 

“A little bit louder should do it,” Victor said.

Black spots danced in the periphery of John’s vision. His head was jerked back by his hair – he couldn’t tell by whose hand. All he saw was the ceiling above him. He inhaled a few shaky breaths, hardly able to think past the insufferable pain and stench of his own raw skin and blood.

“Don’t,” was all he managed to grunt before the rod was pressed in the hollow of his throat. This time, he did scream.

 

**********

 

Sherlock sat with his chin tucked to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut – as if that would do anything to drown out the ungodly sounds of John’s screams. Each one tore through him unyieldingly, like a separate dagger to his heart. They echoed hauntingly around the blank walls, forcing him to hear over and over again how he’d failed to protect his friend.

Evans stood right in front of him. Sherlock couldn’t see, but he knew he wore that same expression of mock-pity on his face. As if that soulless monster felt a single shred of remorse for the orders he had given.

Another fresh round of screaming burst into the walls, and Sherlock couldn’t help the wet sob that broke out of him unwillingly.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Evans said. “Just tell me.”

Shouting came from the other room. Several voices merged together. His shoulders slumped in defeat at the recognizable sound of Victor’s cruel laughter.

“The alleyway behind that vacant Japanese restaurant,” he muttered. “There’s a little space there. Hidden behind a sheet.”

“Very good,” Evans said, brushing Sherlock’s bangs off his head tenderly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“It’s where I lived before,” he continued. “I camped there for a bit. Then I went to visit James Sholto. He told me everything.”

“James . . . You were supposed to have him killed.”

“I know.”

He hung his head as memories flooded his mind – How John shot a man to save him when he didn’t even know his first name yet. The way he looked standing over him, arm outstretched holding a smoking gun. He remembered John’s head resting against the window as he slept on the train. The dim glow of the lamp light as he treated his injured wrist. His little tongue poking out in concentration. It all felt like ages ago.

The corner of Sherlock’s lip quirked up just a bit, though the wetness in his eyes only welled up more.

“Sherlock,” Evans urged.

He blinked the moisture away and restarted with a shaky breath. “John joined me when I returned home. We spent the next few weeks spying on you guys.

“But who told you about Sean and Tony?”

Sherlock chewed his lip for a moment before mumbling, “Irene.”

_ She’s safe. She’s gone, _ he reassured himself.  _ He can’t hurt her. _

Evans sighed and stroked down the baton in his hands. His fingers visibly twitched from restraint.

“Tell me about the spying.”

More screaming erupted from the other room.

“Please . . . please tell them to stop. I’m telling you everything.”

“It stops where we’re done.”

Another tear matted his bottom eyelashes. He quickly wiped it away on his shoulder. “We broke into Tony’s car and Sean’s flat and searched. That’s how we knew to eavesdrop on your meeting in that construction lot.”

Sherlock remembered the nights they spent at the hostel while investigating Tony. Staying up late in the dark, talking about the most mundane things just for the sake of talking. He remembered the sounds John made in his sleep, the redness in his face when he saw him coming out of the shower. He remembered waking up with him for the first time in the alley, with his head rested on his arm.

“And that’s when you got the brilliant idea to impersonate my smuggler,” Evans said. “And why? Because you thought you could stop me?”  Sherlock didn’t respond. “Who else is part of this little operation of yours?”

“No one,” Sherlock said.

“Not Irene?”

“No.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No. I swear.”

“What about that little alley of yours? I think I’ll take a look there myself and see if you’re hiding anything else.”

Sherlock stiffened in the chair. That little nook was the one place in the world that belonged to him. It was dirty, cramped, smelly, and always wet, but it was his.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Evans said, chuckling quietly at his reaction. “Your little friend will be grateful.”

 

**********

 

John sat slumped in his chair, watching Tony, Sean, and Victor with heavy-lidded eyes. He had nearly sobbed in relief when they’d first received the orders from Evans to stop. His chest was numb from the number of burns he’d taken. He didn’t even look down at it for fear of how gruesome it would look.

His face was bloodied from the few times the men had taken a break from burning him in favor of a good old-fashioned beating. He could feel the blood dripping from his nose, which was probably broken. His lip was torn with a fresh cut, and there was a slash across his cheek from the knife as well as a few nicks on his throat.

“Sean. Evans needs you to go with him,” Tony said, reading another text. Sean spared a sympathetic glance at John but couldn’t have looked happier to be leaving. Without another word, he was out the door. “He also says to get him some food and water.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “Just tell your girl to bring some.”

John looked up at the mention of food. He didn’t know when the last time he ate was, and now that it was on his mind, he couldn’t ignore the emptiness gnawing at his stomach and the dry rawness in his throat.

Within ten minutes, a soft knock came at the door. Victor went to answer, and a visibly shaken Leah was allowed inside. She locked eyes with Tony, and for a moment, a silent conversation seemed to pass between the two of them. Then she approached John, carrying a tray and placing it on his lap with trembling hands. She lingered for a moment, quickly glanced up to him, and then rushed away in a flash.

John looked down at the plate. She had prepared a nice little meal consisting of a sandwich, a banana, and some water. Folded in a cloth napkin were his utensils. He looked back to see Tony and Victor watching him with irritation. He cleared out the blood in his throat and wet his swollen lips so he could speak.

“Are one of you planning to feed me?” he asked. “Can’t exactly eat with my hands tied.”

Tony looked like he wanted to snatch up the bludgeon and beat him in the head again. Victor grudgingly came up behind him to free his hands. John noticed Leah watching him carefully as he waited. Though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what her wide, blue eyes were trying to tell him.

Victor re-tied his hands in front of him. “This is just until you’re done eating. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

John tested the strength of the new knots – they seemed just as expertly tied as before, though now he could see the pink rawness of his bleeding, abused wrists. He picked up the sandwich and took a bite. The simple combination of turkey, lettuce, cheese, and mayonnaise had never tasted better to his deprived, yearning taste buds.

“What did Evans want with Sean?” Victor asked Tony.

“To check out that dump where Sherlock used to live.”

Victor snickered. “Always knew he’d amount to nothing. All he was good for was sucking cock and getting good cocaine.”

“Yeah, we get it. You’ve made that clear,” Tony said. John paused in his sip of water to shoot a scathing glare at the both of them.

“Did Evans text you anything else?”

“Just reminding everyone of the new schedule since we’re not doing it next week anymore.”

John watched the two of them like a tennis match.  _ New schedule, _ he repeated to himself. So they’d moved up the date of their big attack now that someone had caught onto them. The question was, what was the new plan?

John unfolded his napkin to wipe the crumbs off his hands. Out of the cloth poured a spoon, a fork – and his butterfly knife.

With lightning fast reflexes, he covered it back up and looked to Leah. She was already watching him with knowing eyes, but quickly averted her gaze and resumed a fearful, innocent expression. After checking that Victor and Tony were still talking, he peeked under the napkin again. Never in his life had he been happier to see that gleaming blade and gorgeous scarlet handle.

“Are you going to hurt him again?” Leah asked Tony.

“I told you. We do what we’re ordered to do.”

Leah tugged on the front of his shirt pleadingly – turning him so he faced away from John. “Please. He’s had enough . . .”

While everyone was distracted, John took the knife and started sawing away at the twine. The angle was awkward. He couldn’t use much force as he needed, but he cut and cut as much as he could, all while keeping an eye on the scene in front of him.

Tony tried to pull away from Leah, but she wouldn’t let him go. So instead, he took her wrist and hauled her to the door. The two of them argued in hushed tones all the way outside, and soon, their voices disappeared down the hall. Only John and Victor remained in the room.

_ Thank you, Leah,  _ John thought.

He had to act fast while Tony was occupied. The twine wasn’t cut all the way through, but it was severely weakened.

“Hey. You can take the tray now,” he said to Victor, with the knife hidden up his sleeve.

Victor glared at him, as though to remind him that he wasn’t his servant, but took the tray anyway. When he was turned, John quickly leaned down and slashed through the ties around his ankles, resisting a groan at the pain in his ribs.

Victor returned a moment later to retie his hands behind his back, but the moment he leaned down, John tore his wrists free and punched him square in the jaw. Each joint in his body cried out as he stood up, blocked a return blow, and grabbed Victor by the front of his shirt. When he had him slammed against the nearest wall, he held the knife up to his throat. Victor stared down at him, looking more shocked and clueless than John had ever seen him. He reached down for the gun in his pocket, but John pressed the knife harder into his neck.

“Hands up,” he said. “Don’t even think about it.” Victor obeyed.

John breathed heavily through gritted teeth, fighting through the pain in his throbbing head, his burning chest, his aching ribs.

“Where’s Sherlock?” he demanded. “And what’s this about a new plan of attack?”

Victor glanced down to the knife at his neck and then back up at John.

 

**********

 

The screaming had stopped a while ago. The motel was quiet. Too quiet. It gave Sherlock absolutely no material to work with in deducing John’s whereabouts. Or what state he was in – alive, dead, conscious, injured . . .

He tested the strength of his restraints for the umpteenth time. He had been alone in this room for about half an hour, he predicted.  He was starting to get restless. His leg bounced in agitation. His heart raced with unchecked anxiety.

All of a sudden, two gunshots rang out.

_ John. _

His struggle intensified. Endless horrifying possibilities flashed through his mind.

No. John couldn’t be dead. If John was dead, he would know – somehow, someway. But he still could have gotten shot. Because if John had been restrained like him, then surely he couldn’t have been the one who –

The door burst open. And there stood John, hands locked around a gun. Sherlock’s heart soared at the sight of him. The pain in his body leaked away. The coldness melted as John’s presence warmed him from within. The cuts, the bruises, the bumps – it all vanished. All that was left was a flood of replenishing warmth, reawakening his will, reviving his downtrodden heart. 

John scanned the room for threats, panting breathlessly with his face twisted in a vicious scowl – an expression that had never looked more beautiful to Sherlock. Though his inner glow dimmed when he took in his beaten and bloody face, his torn open shirt, and god – the state of his chest. There was hardly any actual skin left.

John lowered his gun and rushed forward, his face instantly softening.

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

“Sherlock. Oh my god.” John’s hands hovered over his body, taking in all of his injuries. “Oh god, oh god,” he whispered manically to himself.

Sherlock wanted to tell him not to worry, that no injury on his own body mattered as long as they were alive. But his voice failed him as he lost himself in John’s eyes, relishing in the fact that he was here. He was alive and he had come for him.

John put a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, as though to reassure himself that he was really there as well. His expression softened to something so tender and raw, it made Sherlock’s stomach ache with the need to touch him. To hold him, to brush the bloodied, matted hair off his forehead. He leaned into John’s palm, taking in the warmth and drinking in every detail – the familiar curve of the bags under his eyes, that little twinge in his jaw, his twinkling, ocean-deep eyes . . . Sherlock’s stomach flipped in sudden panic. John’s eyes were duller than he remembered. There was something dazed about them. And his breathing . . . it wasn’t quite steady.

John suddenly took out his knife and began freeing his legs. Sherlock followed the blade with his eyes – blood already stained the gleaming, silver metal. When John reached around his back to untie his wrists, their bodies were separated only by a few agonizing inches. Sherlock twitched with eagerness to be free. The moments seemed to drag on, intentionally delaying when they could be together once more.

At last, the last tie was cut loose, and he slid off the chair and sunk to his knees. John joined him, and their arms wrapped around each other in an instant.

Where Sherlock expected a hug, he didn’t get one. Instead he found their lips locked, sealed so not a breach of air came between them. He wasn’t sure who initiated it. It didn’t matter. His palms held either side of John’s head, and John’s did the same. Sherlock closed his eyes and melted into the feeling of John holding him close as though he’d never let him go again, kissing him like he was his oxygen. The feel of him was so achingly familiar, yet it was so unlike any of the kisses they had shared before. This was soul-bearing, positively brimming with endless reconciliations, apologies, and everything that they hadn’t found the strength to say verbally. The kiss tasted of metallic blood and sweat, but Sherlock chased after it like he couldn’t get enough. In this moment, nothing in the universe mattered to him but the lifeblood warming John’s lips, the breath coming from his mouth, the racing pulse in his neck. They were alive. John was here. They were together.

When John pulled back for air, Sherlock chased him for another all-encompassing kiss, and then they broke apart, equally gasping for breath. He pressed their foreheads pressed together. Eyes closed and hearts racing, they remained that way for several moments.

John swept his hands down Sherlock’s bloody chin and stained shirt. “Hurts?” he asked.

“I’m okay.” Sherlock traced the torn flap of John’s shirt, eyes tracing over the shiny, raw skin of his chest. He pressed his lips together and glanced up into John’s eyes apologetically. John caught his hand and held it tight.  _ It’s okay, _ he said with a squeeze.

“Sherlock, we have to go. We have to go right now. I’ve got to tell you something.”

He once again noticed the dulled color of John’s eyes and the excessive perspiration at his forehead. And the fact that while John was trying to help him up, he was actually leaning onto him for support; the moment he was in a half-standing position, he grunted and collapsed in on himself.

“John!”

Sherlock eased him to the floor and peeled his hands away from where they were clutched tight around his middle. His blood ran ice cold. John’s palms were coated in blood. Inside his jacket, a dark, wet circle stained his shirt. Sherlock’s heart froze, his ears rang in his head. He couldn’t form a single coherent thought.

John touched his side and then looked down at his bloody hand, exactly as Janine had the moment before she collapsed to the floor and died. John looked back up at Sherlock, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“No,” Sherlock said, lightly slapping his cheek. “No, no, no!”

John’s eyes opened again momentarily, but they were empty and distant. The spark that normally lit them was replaced with a dull fogginess. His pale lip twitched, trying so hard to form a word.

“S – Sal,” John managed to whisper.

Sherlock put two fingers to his neck, just as his body fell limp. He panicked with helplessness. He didn’t have John’s medical knowledge. He wasn’t equipped to deal with this. He didn’t know what to do, who to call, where to go.

_ Sal. _

Immediately, he bolted up. He wriggled his hands under John’s shoulders and knees, and scooped him up. As he rushed to the door, he tore through his memory, searching for the sloppily written address he’d seen in the book on John’s desk.

He ran down the hallway, fully prepared to sprint across town if need be. He would’ve climbed a mountain if it meant getting John the attention he needed. As he turned a corner, he saw a body splayed out on the floor. Even laying facedown with a bleeding hole in the back of his head, Sherlock recognized Victor. Without hesitation, he maneuvered around his body and kept running, never once looking back.

“Wait!” came a voice from behind him when he was nearly at the front door. A female voice.

Sherlock stopped and turned, merely out of confusion. A young woman with panicked eyes and a mess of blond curls ran up to him.

“Blue Chevy. Outside,” she said frantically, hooking a ring of keys around one of his fingers.

“What?” he said. “Who are you?”

“Go!” she said. “Tony will be out any second.”

Sherlock looked between her and the door. The woman anxiously searched the halls behind them, as though preparing for Tony to emerge from any one of them.

“Do you want to come with us?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I know what I’m doing. Go!”

She practically shoved him to the door. With one last look at her, Sherlock gave her a grateful nod and left. As soon as he stepped outside, a blast of thunder shook his footing. He hadn’t been able to tell that it was raining from inside, nor was he aware that night had fallen. The rain struck his face like icy needles as he eased down the steps. With his head lowered, he stumbled out into the foggy darkness and up to the blue Chevy parked in the lot. He carefully laid John down in the backseat, then slid into the front and sped away.

***

Five minutes later, Sherlock pulled up to a curb and parked the car. As soon as he opened the door, he stepped into a puddle, drenching himself to the ankles. He cursed under his breath and gently lifted John out of the backseat, all while the rain continued to soak through his clothes. With only the streetlights to guide him through the darkness, he carried him up the front steps of the flat and nudged the doorbell with his shoulder.

_ Please, please, _ he begged. Thin streams of water poured down the front of his nose. His sopping wet bangs dangled in front of his eyes, obstructing his vision. It took all his effort to avoid looking down at John, seeing how much more color had drained from him, how much weaker his pulse was.

A woman answered the door. A flash of lightning illuminated her unfamiliar face. She locked eyes with Sherlock in confusion, and it was only when she looked down at John that recognition transpired on her face. Her expression morphed into one of horror as thunder crackled behind them. Her hands flew to her mouth as she looked over his limp body in Sherlock’s arms. 

“Oh my god,” she said, opening the door for them. “Come in.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. I thought with school being done, I'd have more time to whip these chapters out every week or so, but turns out the summer is just as crazy busy!!
> 
> I hope you're all having a fun summer <3 Please leave me a comment if you can! I love receiving them!!


	12. Sanctuary

Sherlock sat on the couch for hours, leg jittering, with his head in his hands, waiting for some news, an update, anything. It killed him knowing that just across the flat, John was fighting for his life – fighting to survive after being tortured as bait for him, beaten for getting caught doing something Sherlock had pushed on him. And he couldn’t do anything but sit helplessly and wait in this brightly colored, neatly kept flat that belonged to two strangers.

The flat was deathly silent. Not even a single peep came from the closed bedroom door where John had been taken. Sherlock kept his head down, studying the strings of the rug that stuck up between his toes. He counted them all, one by one, taking note of the different black, red, and grey shades. When he was done, he shifted his feet to a different spot on the rug and started again. His thighs started to ache where his elbows dug deep into them, holding the weight of his head and body leaning onto them. But he didn’t move. He took note of the pain, noticing each wave of it, pulsating stronger and stronger the longer he refused to move his elbows.

The bedroom door opened and closed quietly, but his nose stayed pointed to the floor. The couch dipped next to him. He glanced over to the pair of feet next to his - clad in purple socks with cat ears and whiskers on the toes.

“He’s going to be okay. He just needs to rest.”

Sherlock recognized the voice of Sally Donovan’s flat mate, Molly, who had jumped right into action after they had arrived. She was an experienced pathologist and had the necessary medical knowledge to help – which he realized was probably why John had directed him to come here.

“You should really try to get some sleep,” Molly said. “I can set you up with the futon if you’d like.”

Sherlock remained silent, curling his toes into the rug again and again. He could hear Molly uncomfortably shifting beside him, probably trying to decide whether to leave or stay. He wished for her to leave.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked, sounding forcibly chipper. “We’ve got Green, Black, Earl Grey, Chamomile, whatever you like.”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. It almost pained him to listen to how hard she was trying. His head pounded with an oncoming migraine. All he wanted was to be left alone or be given some real, tangible news about John. But he had a feeling Molly would just keep sitting here and forcing small talk until something intervened to stop her.

“Or biscuits,” she continued. “If you want. I can get you some.”

He considered requesting an item she would have to leave the flat to get, if only to make her go away. He wasn’t interested in food, even if he hadn’t eaten in a full day. Food meant nothing while John was just a room away, barely alive.

“Or perhaps some scones? I baked some yesterday and have a few left over.”

With that, Sherlock slapped his knee, an expletive ready on his tongue. When he looked up, the first thing he noticed were the scrubs Molly had thrown over her polka-dot pajamas. They were covered in wrinkles and fold lines, as if they had been pulled from deep inside a drawer in the back of her closet. Her long, brown hair was pulled back in a loose, lopsided bun, with several strands hanging out as though she’d been in a wreck. Dark bags hung under her heavy-lidded eyes. And yet, when she caught his eye, she still put on a tired smile for his sake.

He wasn’t the only one who’d been awake all night worrying about John.

He sunk back into the couch, releasing the tension with a heavy sigh. “No thank you, Molly,” he said, adding a strained smile after a moment’s hesitation. It seemed to take the effort of every muscle in his face.

Molly nodded with a tight grin of her own. She drummed her fingers on her lap, and Sherlock noticed the dried, pink stains on her thigh. Her neckline and chest were also splashed with fresher, redder stains. The sight made his stomach lurch. His head suddenly felt hollow and lightheaded.

“He really is going to be okay,” Molly said softly, after she noticed him looking.

“Thank you.”

“I’m so grateful I had some supplies at home,” she added. “I don’t know how much help I would’ve been otherwise.”

“Let’s count ourselves lucky then.”

Molly huffed a short laugh. “Sally had a lot of explaining to do as she assisted me, you know. I thought she worked in computer science. Well, I suppose that was partially true. She’d just never mentioned that her boss was an assassin!” She forced out another laugh here, watching for his reaction, which stayed flat. “Well, you can imagine my surprise. I’m engaged to a detective, and all this time I’ve been living with a criminal!”

Sherlock glanced to the hand resting on her thigh. Sure enough, an elegant diamond ring graced her fourth finger. Molly stretched out her fingers to show it off for a brief second, and then modestly curled them back up.

“But Sally said she and John have both found new work, which I’m glad for,” she continued in a more serious tone. “Though it’s not my place to judge, is it. I just want to help. That’s all any of us can really do, isn’t it?”

Sherlock looked up at her properly. In her large, brown eyes, he saw a sincerity that was absent in most other people he had come across in his life. She had stayed up all night to save the life of a total stranger, after discovering both he and her own flat mate were criminals, no less. A lot of people spurted empty words like hers – that they just wanted to help people, save the world, all of that. But she really meant it. Another smile stretched his lips, though this time, it took no effort.

“Some biscuits would be really nice actually. Thank you,” he said softly.

Almost immediately, his stomach growled impatiently. Molly practically sprang up from the couch. After some fumbling in the kitchen, she returned with several snacks tucked under her armpits and chin, along with a plate of scones and two glasses of water. 

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said as she laid everything out on the table like a feast.

“It was nothing.”

Just as she selected a scone for herself, the bedroom door opened again. Sally came out, also wearing a pair of wrinkled scrubs that probably belonged to Molly.

“All cleaned,” she said to her.

“Thanks, Sal. Is he still asleep?”

Sally nodded, while glancing oddly in Sherlock’s direction. Molly turned to him.

“He needs to rest. But you can go see him if you want.” 

Sherlock’s heart leapt, pulling him up onto his feet in a second. But before crossing the flat to the bedroom, he looked apologetically over the assortment of snacks Molly had just laid out for him.

“Go on,” she said with a pleasant smile.

With a nod of gratitude, he allowed Sally to trade places with him on the couch.

***

It took a moment for Sherlock’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. The full moon shining in through the window cast a dim, clouded light throughout the room. He guessed the room belonged to Molly, judging by the cat bed in the corner and the white lab coat hanging on the closet door.

John was in the bed, lying flat on his back with one hand on his stomach. The sheets were tucked around his hips, allowing his bare chest to breathe. As Sherlock approached, he could see the bandages on each of his burns and the layered gauze around his middle – where he’d been stabbed.

Molly had told him the puncture wasn’t deep. He had lost a lot of blood, but no major damage was done. John’s loss of consciousness had less to do with the bleeding and more to do with the constant adrenaline bursts and torture he’d faced that night, along severe dehydration.

Sherlock perched himself on the side of the bed and placed a hand over John’s. His skin was warmer than it was before. And even in the dark, he could tell some of his color had returned. But he was still considerably weak. His wrinkles ran deeper into his skin, his eye bags hung heavier. His cheekbones were more prominent, as though some weight had dropped from his face.

In the far corner of the room, John’s clothes were folded on a chair, and the bin beside it was overflowing with bloody tissue and cloths. Sherlock was glad he was behind closed doors, in a small dark room where nothing but the moon could see him tremble at the gory evidence of how close John had come to dying tonight. Because of him. Because of what he’d gotten them into.

He pulled his hand away from John’s, as though the skin suddenly burned. He didn’t deserve to touch him.

“John,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

His hand hovered over him, wanting so badly to touch again, but he pulled it back.

“I’m sorry. I never should’ve told you to get in the van. I never should’ve made you go there. You were right. It was reckless and stupid. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .”

He rocked back and forth, wrapping his arms around his middle to contain the shivers quaking through him.

“I knew this would happen. It always happens. The people I care about. They always get hurt. I knew it was coming and I let it happen anyway. I sent you straight into it.”

The last sentence stung like a spear to his gut. He shook his head, burning with shame and remorse.

“You didn’t deserve what they did to you. It should’ve been me. It could’ve been me, if I’d talked sooner. I’m so,  _ so _ sorry, John.”

He covered his mouth over his shaky intake of breath. His heart sunk at the sight of John’s still, unresponsive face. Not a single twitch on his body showed that he heard. No part of him moved except his flickering eyelids and the steady rise and fall of his brutalized chest. He rubbed his palms into his eyes and steadied himself with another deep breath. He then kicked off his shoes, moved to the other side of the bed, and crawled atop it. As gently as he could, he laid himself beside John, curled up to face him, but careful not to touch. John probably wouldn’t want him to touch, not after what had happened due to his carelessness. But he could still lie here. And he could watch. Make sure nothing else hurt him the rest of the night.

Outside, the storm had calmed to a gentle patter. Rain tapped the window in a soothing, consistent rhythm. Sherlock soon found his eyelids drooping. His hand lay flat in the small space between himself and John. His fingers twitched to close the distance. To just touch a little. Even with his fingertips. With great effort, he lifted his hand and rested it softly over John’s arm. The warmth soothed the skin of his palm instantly, and he allowed his eyelids to close.

***

Some hours later, Sherlock woke to a soft movement in the bed. John was stirring beside him. He propped up on his elbow, waiting patiently as his eyes blinked open. John put a hand to his bandaged chest and looked down at himself. He then caught sight of Sherlock lying beside him.

“Sherlock?” he whispered into the darkness.

Sherlock responding by reaching out and touching a single fingertip back to his arm, where his hand had been resting all night.

“Where are we?”

“Sally’s flat.”

He could barely see John’s tired smile. “Wasn’t sure if you’d understand me.”

“I heard you,” Sherlock whispered.

John stared up at him from his pillow. Tiny wrinkles formed around his eyes from his weak smile.

“John,” Sherlock started with a tightening heart. “I’m so very sorry. Everything that happened-”

“I know,” John said.

“What?”

“I heard you.”

His eyes fluttered, but John’s remained steady and open, watching him silently. Pressure built behind his eyelids. His throat closed up. “Well,” he said, his voice wobbling a bit. “I hope you’ll at least forgive me.”

John fixed him with a masterful copy of his own you’re-an-idiot look.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he said. He reached out – wincing a little – and pulled him forward by his shirt.

When their lips were moments away from touching, John hesitated. His lips closed together, pressing slightly. Sherlock hovered over him carefully, watching for any signs that he should move away.

John then closed his eyes and pulled him all the way down. Their lips barely brushed, like it was their first ever kiss. And in a strange way, it almost was. They hadn’t kissed like this before. Not ever. It was just a peck, but it sent Sherlock’s heart soaring into the sky. It was a shy whisper of contact, but it was firm and deliberate. Intentional. Purposeful. John’s eyes closed, his eyebrows pinching together as though troubled. Sherlock barely moved his mouth, waiting for John to initiate every move, careful not to shatter the delicacy of what was happening. When they pulled apart, everything was still. The wind outside quieted and the shadows of the swaying tree branches went motionless. It took a moment for John to open his eyes. When he did, his features relaxed, and the softest, barest smile graced his face. Sherlock cupped a palm to his cheek. Then at the same time, they went in again. One careful brush of lips, then another. The caution and uncertainties vanished more with each one as they warmed up and melted into one another. They kissed for lost time, for every harsh word and misunderstanding that had passed between them. They kissed with purpose and promise, as they had never done before.

John maneuvered to lie on his side. Sherlock helped him, careful not to disturb his wounds. His fingers wove into his curls as their lips continued their gentle dance. John then shifted to move on top of him and winced in pain.

Sherlock instantly broke their kiss and eased him onto his back. “Easy, John. Just rest.”

John complied with a frustrated sigh and placed his hand on his wound. “He got me good, didn’t he.”

Sherlock arranged the sheets around his hips again. When he was done, John extended his arm in invitation. Sherlock cuddled up next to him, laying his head on his shoulder and resting his hand on his stomach. With a little shifting, they were back to fitting like puzzle pieces, feeling at home in one another’s arms.

“I do love you, by the way.”

Sherlock’s heart beat skidded to a halt. “What?”

John nuzzled the top of his head. “That night I found you in the alley. After you’d used again. You asked me if I love you. I do.”

Moisture prickled in his eyes for the umpteenth time that night. Words utterly failed him. No words could do justice to how he felt. But John just patiently drew his fingertips up and down his shoulder as he swallowed down the rocky lump in his throat.

“I love you,” he stuttered out in a harsh whisper. “I love you, too.”

It might have been the understatement of the century. As if those three simple words could come close to explaining the depths of devotion he felt for John. He heard a breathy chuckle above him and felt another nuzzle in his hair.

“Well, good. Glad we’ve got that sorted then.”

John’s fingers found his, giving them a squeeze, and they wove together in a tight lock. Sherlock cuddled in closer. John’s hand in his – it was like a promise. They had found each other and would never again let go. Sherlock returned the promise with a squeeze of his own, and together, they drifted to sleep. 

***

Morning seemed to come in the blink of an eye. When it seemed that Sherlock had only closed his eyes for a moment, he found himself waking up in a bright room. The blankets were kicked down to his feet, but he was still enveloped by the warmth of a heavy arm. John remained lost to the waking world around him, still sunk deep in slumber, although he looked worlds better than he did last night. With a bit of wriggling, Sherlock maneuvered out from under his arm and crept out of the room.

Outside, Molly and Sally were already awake and dressed.

“Good morning,” Molly greeted from the kitchen table with a cup of tea in her hand.

“How is he?” Sally said.

“He looks better. Still asleep, though.”

“Well, let’s let him rest,” Molly said. “Come, sit down. I’ve made pancakes.”

Sherlock took the empty seat beside her and helped himself to a few of the stacked pancakes in the center of the table. Sally paused in her eating, watching him carefully as he drizzled syrup on top.

“Sherlock,” she said after he’d taken his first bite. “You’ve got to tell us what’s going on here.”

Sherlock looked up at her mid-swallow. Molly gave her a tired look. “Sally-”

“No, who even is he?” she shot back. “We have a right to know. And what happened to John?”

Sherlock dabbed the syrup off his bottom lip. “Well. When did you last see him?”

“Last I knew, our boss Mary sent him out of town for some mission. He never returned. Next thing I know, he’s showing up nearly dead at my doorstep.”

“Yes, well. He never actually went on that mission. He went to see his old friend, James Sholto.”

Sherlock launched into the story of how they met in that darkened garage and reunited a day later in St. Asaph. How they stumbled upon Evans’ malicious plan to destroy some of London’s most important establishments and teamed up to stop him. How Sherlock sent him undercover and they got caught and barely escaped with their lives.

Molly’s eyes widened and her hands covered her mouth at the appropriate parts. Sally, however, listened stoically with a raised left eyebrow.

“So why’d you bring him here?” she asked when he finished.

“He told me to.”

Sally face softened just a bit as she glanced back at the closed door behind which John was sleeping. She looked down at the floor as her arms crossed and uncrossed.

“Do you know what you’re going to do about all this?” she asked.

“To be perfectly honest, no.”

“You’re not going to report this?”

“Not with the track record John and I have. We have a week until the attack. I think we can stop them on our own.”

Sally again looked between him and the door. “Well . . . you can wash up and help yourselves to whatever you need. But after that . . . I’m sorry, but you need to take this away from here. I don’t know what you two are involved in, but I want to be left out of it. Molly does, too.”

At this, Molly glanced apologetically to him and hid her face in her mug.

“I understand,” Sherlock said.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock tapped a single finger on the table, looking down at his empty plate. In his peripheral vision, he saw Molly looking between him and Sally, probably still shock ridden at everything she just heard.

“Sherlock . . . why don’t you go check on John,” she said. “There’s a sponge in the shower if he wants to get cleaned up a bit. Afterwards, I can check on his stitches.”

Sherlock accepted his dismissal and brought his dishes to the sink.

***

John was already awake when Sherlock came back to the room – though grumpy and frustrated from trying to get out of bed himself. It took nearly fifteen minutes to get him from the bed to the shower, and to undress him carefully enough not to disturb his stitches. When he peeled back the first bit of tape from his gauze, John nearly growled at him. Subconsciously holding his breath, he quickly unwrapped the layers, revealing a raw, purple and red wound on his stomach. Sherlock hissed in a breath. Thin lines of thread held the skin together. It was clean and uninfected, but still gruesome. John looked down at himself as well, but his face remained neutral. Without a word, he pulled off the bandages on his burns until his torso was completely bare.

Sherlock stood behind him as they both looked him over in the mirror. John’s chest was marred and mangled beyond belief. His vision went red at the thought of those foul men so much as laying a finger on John. He focused on the anger, invited it in, if only to keep out the nauseating guilt he would have felt instead. John caught his eye in the mirror and gave him a small smile as though to reassure him.

“Come on,” he said, stepping out of his pants and into the shower. Sherlock quickly stripped down and joined him.

He pulled the curtains shut, enclosing the warm steam around them. John stayed pressed against the wall to avoid the hot spray of water, but Sherlock soaked himself in it. Down at his feet, the dirt and grime that had been caked on him since last night swirled around the drain. The hot water was a soothing massage to every bruise and ache he felt in his body. John stuck his arm out into the water, but flinched as soon as the spray misted his burns.

“Here, let me,” Sherlock said, turning the lever to lower the heat.

He took the sponge and saturated it with water, then ran it up John’s arm, shoulders, and neck. When he dabbed it over the first of his burns, John immediately grabbed his wrist.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said.

He ever so carefully patted around the skin, which was raw pink and slightly yellowing in the middle. John continued to flinch but stayed mostly still as bits of dead skin washed off.

“Move on to the next one,” John said through gritted teeth. “They don’t need much water. The open air and steam are good enough.”

Sherlock obediently dabbed delicately around the rest of his burns. When he pulled the sponge back after the last one, John visibly breathed out in relief.

“Thank god that’s over.

“Seems like just yesterday you were cleaning me up,” Sherlock said, adding soap to the sponge.

“Yeah, you weren’t torched with a metal rod though, were you.”

Sherlock paused at his words. The knotting guilt that had been eating away at him once again pinched at his sides.  _ Torched with a rod. _ All to get to him.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

He looked down at the soap dispenser in his hands, pulling back to the present. “Still have to wash the rest of you.

He turned back to John, though this time, he found it hard to meet his eyes. With a shaking hand, he raised the sponge.

“Hey,” John said, tapping him under the chin.

Sherlock met his questioning gaze.  _ What’s wrong, _ his eyes asked. Those large blue orbs tore into him with their openness and honesty. He looked between them, feeling the lump in his throat bob as he swallowed.

“Did you mean it last night? You forgive me?” he asked, barely audible over the shower stream.

John clamped his jaw shut, causing a little dip in the corner of it.

“Sherlock,” he said, moving his hands up to the curls above his ear. He pulled him close enough that Sherlock could feel the whispers of movement against his mouth as he spoke.

“I don’t want to hear you blaming yourself for this anymore.”

Sherlock dropped the sponge and encircled his fingers around John’s wrists, holding tight for support. “You got hurt because of me. I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t put you in that position -”

“Hey. You didn’t force me to do anything.” John pinched his lips shut for a brief moment. “Do you know why I got in the car that day?”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“It wasn’t about the investigation. It wasn’t even because we fought and I wanted to get away from you. It was because I loved you. Even back then, but I didn’t know it yet. I would’ve jumped into a volcano for you if you’d asked, Sherlock. So how can I blame you for a single thing that’s happened?”

His speech tore into Sherlock’s heart, piling onto the guilt even if the intention was to alleviate it. He tried to pull away, but John kept his hands tight on the sides of his head. His dark eyes glanced between his for a moment. And then he angled his head and pressed a slow, tender kiss to his lips. Sherlock opened up to it, even allowing for a quick swipe of their tongues before John pulled back just an inch.

“And that day, when you told me you had feelings for me right before the van pulled up. I don’t know, I was frustrated that you weren’t figuring things out at the exact same pace as me. I’m not used to being the one that has to wait for someone else to catch up. So, I’m sorry about that. But what matters now is that we’ve figured it out. So let’s focus on that, yeah?

Sherlock’s spreading smile melted the remaining worries in his heart. John smiled back and pushed his sopping wet bangs off his forehead.

“Come on, kiss me,” he said. Their lips locked again. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s naked waist. “No more blaming yourself, okay?” he mumbled against his skin. “It’s not your fault when people get hurt.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, clenching at the memory that would haunt him the rest of his life. How he should’ve tried harder to stop Janine from leaving that night. How she might not have died if he’d stayed in his room. 

“Hey,” John said, snapping him out of his daze. “Not now, not ever.”

Sherlock relaxed into his embrace, bringing his arms to circle John’s back. He vowed that one day, he would tell John the full story about her. He would tell him everything.

They kissed slowly, as though they had all the time in the world. Like time had paused and wouldn’t resume until they were good and ready for it. John leaned back into the shower wall and Sherlock followed. The water now only misted his back, though little streams continued to run down his nose and cheeks, moistening the slide of their lips. John brought his arms up and around his shoulders, pulling him in tight. Sherlock braced himself with a hand on the wall and let the other carefully skim down his side. Gently, with just the tips of his fingers.

“Come on,” John urged, digging his fingers into his shoulder. “Touch me.”

Sherlock couldn’t. He didn’t want to hurt him. But John, without breaking their kiss, reached down to grip his wrist.

“John-”

“Do it.”

Sherlock let him guide his hand where it was safe to touch. Around his belly and below the navel. He brushed with his fingers and then pressed his full palm to the skin. John had softened a bit since he’d last touched him like this, but he found he liked it. It was endearing. He gave a quick squeeze of his wait and skimmed lower.

John breathed heavier into his mouth. His tongue soon made its way into the mix. With this encouragement, Sherlock brushed over his hip, feeling the bony structure and then moving inward where he met a scratchy patch of curls. He carded through them, feeling a rush when John melted further into him. John panted impatiently into their kiss, but Sherlock kept still for a moment. The knots in his stomach that had always appeared when being intimate with John were absent. The restraining binds around his heart were gone. John’s words –  _ “Then nothing between us has to change” _ – rang in his ears like a conditioned response, but they no longer stung to the core. Things between them  _ had _ changed. This wasn’t a rushed, adrenaline-fueled shag like all the others had been. This was real. This was  _ them _ . And all he felt was peace.

Sherlock lowered his hand.

“Yes,” John growled when he finally reached the place he’d impatiently been waiting for him to touch. He gave his lip a hungry nibble, and Sherlock captured his mouth again, ravaging his lips. He gave his base a squeeze, and John’s hips jerked forward. Over and over again, he stroked up and down, squeezing generously and swiping his thumb over the tip when he could.  Precum mingled with the water, granting a smoother slide. John encouraged him with his movements, his sounds. Sherlock swallowed it all, pulling harder and harder until he started to shake.

John wrapped his leg up around him, and he instinctively removed his hand and held onto John’s waist, allowing their bodies to align at the hips. Together, they rocked in a perfect rhythm. Not too fast, with just the right amount of zeal. John gave his arse a squeeze, keeping their bodies locked tightly together, encouraging the smooth slide. Their lips never broke apart, they hardly used their hands except to hold onto one another. And yet, Sherlock felt it was the most intimate and powerful contact they’d ever had. He’d never felt closer or more connected to John than he was right now - standing in a stranger’s shower, aching from head to toe, grinding like teenagers.

He opened his mouth wide to John’s increasingly wild kisses, swallowing his moans, thrusting harder as they both approached completion. Finally, John pulled away from his mouth and let his head fell back against the wall. Sherlock dove forward, continuously smothering him with kisses even when he stopped returning them. As John’s eyes closed in pleasure, he smeared his lips down his chin and neck, sucking hard and finishing with a final thrust. He could hardly breathe with the pleasure filling his body and misty steam saturating the air. It consumed him, suffocating all else out except the pure bliss, joy, and intimacy of this moment. The seclusion of the shower curtain kept it all inside, surrounding them with it, drowning them in it. Every breath contained hot vapor and the smell of sex, sweat, and skin. They caught their breath, soaking it all in. Sherlock stayed safely tucked in John’s neck. Their legs interlocked below, maximizing every point of contact. John mindlessly dragged his fingers through the wet hairs at the base of his skull, sparking tingles all along his neck and back. The water ran on, and they let it, still feeling like the world outside had paused just for them. But a ticklish whisper in his ear soon came, pulling him back to earth.

“I love you."

He filled with dizzying warmth, smiling privately into John’s shoulder.

“I love you,” he said back.

He pulled back and their eyes met. It was time to return to the real world. Sherlock took one last breath of the bubble of  _ them _ the shower had become and turned the water off.

**********

An hour later, Sherlock, John, Sally, and Molly, were all seated on the couch and armchairs surrounding the TV. John looked down into his tea cup, mindlessly drumming his fingers on the delicate glass. His hair was still wet from his shower and he was wearing some clothes Molly’s fiancé had left at the flat. They were a little large for him, but would do for now. He looked up at Sally, the woman he’d worked side by side with for years but had remained nearly strangers with for most of that time. She noticed him looking, and although she didn’t smile, her concerned expression softened a touch.

“How’ve you been, Sally?” John asked.

“I quit working for Mary.”

“I heard.”

“I started working at a law firm. Mostly desk work. Quite boring, but it’s something.”

“How’d you manage to land that job?”

“With very careful wording on my resume. And the payoff of making sure all that stuff with Mary stayed safely underground.”

“Well, hats off to you.”

Sally fixed him with an almost saddened look. The natural follow up would have been for her to ask what he’s been up to, but John knew she was not one for idle small talk.

“Look, John,” she started, clasping her hands together. “Sherlock told us what’s going on.”

“You did?” John asked him. 

Sherlock nodded gravely. “And I think we’ve overstayed our welcome here. We can go back to my alley or something,” he said.

John shook his head. “That would be the first place they’d look for us, after checking my flat. We can’t stay there anymore.” Sherlock’s face fell, and John felt a stab of sympathy for him losing what could’ve been called his only home. “I’m sorry,” John added.

“Look,” Sally said. “I’m not just going to boot you out. You can stay for the morning and figure it out. But Sherlock said this big attack or something is happening in a week, and I can’t have all this-”

John gasped so loudly, he instantly silenced her. “God, I nearly forgot.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I was so fucking out of it last night. I wasn’t even thinking . . . I don’t know how it slipped my mind.”

“What, John?”

John looked at each of them in turn, still appalled that he’d forgotten to mention this most crucial piece of information. “They changed their plan because we caught onto them. I heard Victor talking about it and made him spill.”

“What did they change?” Sherlock asked.

“Same targets and everything. But new date.”

“When?”

John looked hard in to Sherlock’s eyes and swallowed. “Today.”

Sherlock slowly closed his eyes. His shoulders visibly dropped. John knew what was going through his head; there was no conceivable way they could stop five bombs in a few hours. It just wasn’t going to happen. After all the work they’d poured into trying to stop Evans, they were doomed to fail.

“What? What does that mean?” Sally asked.

“There’s going to be a terrorist attack today?” came a small voice – Molly’s.

“Buckingham Palace and the Palace of Westminster are targeted for an attack, yes,” Sherlock said aloud.

“Like America’s 9/11,” Molly said.

“Yes and no. This is a domestic attack.”

John looked at him curiously before continuing, wondering why he only mentioned two of the targets. “They’re set to happen at the same time, I think. Around afternoon.”

Sherlock, Sally, and Molly looked around at each other helplessly. Molly had gone pale as a ghost, and Sally looked torn between a moral obligation to help versus not getting involved. But Sherlock just looked crestfallen.

“Sherlock,” John nearly whispered. He leaned forward, to speak only to him. “I know it seems impossible.”

“It is impossible.”

“I know it seems that way-”

“It is. We’ve failed John. That’s it."

“It’s impossible if we try to do this alone. We need help.”

“If you even suggest . . .”

“We need to report that we know of a terror threat, and let people who are properly trained and equipped to handle these things take care of it.”

Molly piped up before Sherlock could so much as scowl at him. “My fiancé works for Scotland Yard,” she said.

“Useless,” Sherlock shot back with a dismissive flip of his hand.

Molly’s hopeful little smile fell flat instantly. John spared her a sympathetic look and then returned his attention to Sherlock. “Look, maybe . . .”

“You think they’ll listen to us?” he barked. “If you and I even set foot in a precinct, we’ll go to prison for life as soon as they realize who we are.”

“Or maybe not!” John shouted. “If we prevent an attack this huge, don’t you think they’ll ease up? You, know, go for the bigger fish?”

“Are you willing to take that risk? You, an accomplice in god knows how many murders. And me, a man who’d worked directly for the mastermind behind all this. And both of us, who have known about this for quite some time and never said anything. If all fails and the bombs go off, we’re ultimately responsible.”

“They don’t need to know who we are, Sherlock.”

“You realize, we’ll have to explain how we know all this, down to the details of when the bombs will go off. There’s no getting around it.”

“Sherlock. This is much bigger than you and me now. We’re holding thousands of lives in our hands, and if we don’t act, they’ll all be dead by tonight. We can either sit back and protect our own precious behinds, or we can man up and fucking tell someone about it! If we go to prison, so be it. I’d gladly rot in a cell knowing that I stopped thousands of people from being blown up. And I truly hope you feel the same way. Otherwise you’re not who I thought you were.”

John watched as Sherlock’s irritated scowl melted, bit by bit. His lips pressed together guiltily, and when he spoke, his voice was soft – meant just for his ears.

“Alright. You’re right, John.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again for a moment. John knew he was likely imagining all the ways this could go horribly for the two of them. Possibly imagining life in a maximum-security prison. John reached over and took his hand, then looked to Molly, who was watching them with her arms stiffly crossed.

“Molly, you can go ahead and call your fiancé,” he said.

“I’m glad you both approve,” she said flatly. “I called him as soon Sherlock left to help you shower. He’s on his way over to question you both.”

Sherlock and John stared at her blankly. She didn’t so much as flinch under their gazes.

“You reported us?” John asked.

“What?” she said. Almost instinctively, her hands came up to nervously fiddle with the ends of her hair. “Sorry, but I couldn’t exactly wait for your permission to call the police about a bomb threat.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a look.

“Oh, relax,” Sally said. “John was right. He’ll care more about stopping the bombs than about anything you two have done.”

John looked to Molly for confirmation. She nodded quickly. “Although . . . maybe don’t mention the murder, John,” she said.

The corner of Sally’s mouth upturned in a proud little smirk in regard to her flat mate’s pluck.

“He’ll be here any minute,” Molly in a small but steady voice.

Nearly forty seconds later, a swift knock came at the door. In walked a tall, built man with a chiseled jaw and shocking silver-grey hair. Molly pecked him on the cheek as he stood in front of them with his thumbs hooked in his pocket and his feet apart. It was an imposing stance, although it looked forced, like the man was trying his hardest to appear authoritative. John looked to Sherlock, who he knew would see through the act in a second. Sure enough, he was already rolling his eyes. Though what Sherlock probably missed was that it wasn’t the result of some overinflated ego - it seemed more like insecurity. Like he was still trying to prove himself as a cop even though he clearly had years of experience under his belt.

“Sherlock and John, I take it?” the man asked.

“Guilty as charged,” Sherlock mumbled. John nudged him with his elbow.

“Greg Lestrade,” the man introduced. “Detective Inspector, Scotland Yard. So what’s this I hear about a terror threat?”

John looked at Sherlock to relay the whole story, once again. With a dramatic sigh, he started with the night the two of them met in that dark garage.

As Lestrade listened, one of his crossed arms came up to tap his chin. His gaze remained steady and focused. He didn’t so much as flinch at the parts where John and Sherlock broke into Tony’s car and Sean’s flat, or blackmailed the real Phil. He hummed thoughtfully and shook his head in disgust at the appropriate parts, and piped in with questions only once or twice. The unsettling feeling John had had in his stomach settled the more and more he watched him. In his heart, he knew they did the right thing, just from the look in his dark brown eyes. This wasn’t a man who was here to use them and then lock them in a cell. He was here to help. John could tell Sherlock was warming up to him too, from the way his shoulders relaxed and more and more gestures made their way into his storytelling. Although, John did notice that, once again, he only mentioned the Palaces and excluded the three other targeted buildings.

“Then John here heroically escaped with a gun and came to untie me. But he was badly injured, so I brought us here to rest up. And now here we are,” he finished.

Lestrade stood still for a moment, as did everyone in the flat. His eyes dazed out, not a single muscle twitched as he digested everything. Then, he brought a hand up to rub his forehead.

“Christ . . .” he groaned.

“Our thoughts exactly,” Sherlock said. “Though I’m not sure how much help he’ll be.”

John nudged him again in the ribs.

“Okay. Alright . . . uhh . . .”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. A look that said “See, what did I tell you? Useless.” John rolled his eyes and waited patiently for Lestrade to gather his thoughts. 

“Alright. Thank you for telling me. You did the right thing,” he said. “But let’s keep this confidential to avoid a city-wide panic. We can handle it. I’ll call reinforcements and send the bomb squad out to both Palaces right away. All government officials will be escorted to a safe location. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

John looked to Sherlock questioningly, waiting for the moment when he’d mention there were three other targeted buildings they had to protect as well. But Sherlock stayed silent as Lestrade reached out to shake both of their hands. With a quick kiss to Molly, he left the flat.

As soon as the door closed behind him, John rotated on the couch to face Sherlock.

“What was that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Did you just forget about Bart’s, the Bank, and Imperial?”

“Sorry, what?” Sally asked.

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course not. But as we just saw, it seems the police can hardly handle two targets, let alone five. They need to focus all their resources on saving our government buildings and officials. That will take more than their full effort.”

“What do you mean ‘five?’” Molly asked.

“There are five targets,” Sherlock said impatiently. “The other three are St. Bart’s hospital, the Bank of England, and Imperial College London.”

Molly gasped and Sally’s jaw dropped open.

“It’s an attack on our government, healthcare, finances, and education to establish a symbolic anarchy on behalf of all those whom the government has failed.”

“The Bank is the first one to go,” John added. “At noon, I think. So that’s in about two hours. The Palaces are next, at the same time. Then Imperial, and Bart’s is last in the evening.”

Sally looked like she wanted to spurt every swear word in the book but didn’t know which to start with. “So, who the hell is going to save everyone else?” she said instead.

Sherlock’s eyes glinted excitedly, in a way that could only mean trouble. “We are.”

Sally barked out a harsh laugh and looked to her flat mate for back up.

“I can help,” Molly said eagerly. Sherlock and John looked to her, while Sally gaped incredulously. Molly seemed to resist taking a step back, as if she wasn’t used to being the center of such pointed attention. “I work at St. Bart’s. In the labs.  I know people there, and I know the building. I don’t know how to diffuse a bomb, but . . . I could do something.”

John looked to Sherlock, whose lip quirked up excitedly.

“Good,” he said. “I want you and Sally to locate the bomb there. That one’s last to go off, so there’s some time. Just be ready for whoever shows up to diffuse it. Confide in a few trustworthy people if you must, but avoid evacuation unless it’s absolutely necessary. We don’t want people panicking and making everything harder.”

Molly nodded assertively and turned to Sally. “You in?”

Sally looked between John and Sherlock with her nose slightly scrunched in distaste. She then shrugged and threw her hands up in defeated exasperation.

“Doesn’t seem like there’s other option.”

Molly granted her a private smile, which Sally reluctantly returned.

“You can trust us, Sherlock,” Molly said.

“Good. John and I will take Imperial and the Bank.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little breather before we jump back into the action! :) Plus I figured it was time to deliver on the "comfort" part of hurt/comfort :P


	13. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains murder and attempted sexual assault.

Sherlock and John waited at the crosswalk, along with a few other pedestrians. John figured the traffic light would change to red at any moment, and they’d cross the street to the Bank of England. Beside him, Sherlock, who had been completely silent during the cab ride, was fidgeting anxiously. John understood the fate of the city rested in their hands, but he also knew Sherlock was not one to get frazzled by nerves.

“Sherlock? You alright?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock looked at him and then at his feet.

“John, I want to talk to you about . . . I didn’t want to bring it up back at the flat because I knew you’d protest, and I didn’t want to put you in that position in front of Molly and Sally, but . . .”

John raised an eyebrow at him, watching Sherlock search for words. 

“Maybe you should stay here."

He lifted both eyebrows and crossed his arms. “Sorry?"

“You were stabbed less than twenty-four hours ago. Your stitches aren’t healed. You shouldn’t even be out of bed.”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there, Sherlock,” John said, putting a hand up. “I’ve been with you on this since day one. And if you think you can make me watch from the sidelines now, after everything we’ve been through together – fuck that, Sherlock. No.”  

Sherlock pursed his lips. John saw him struggle with whether or not to push him on it. In his eyes, he could see that he knew it was a lost battle. Surely Sherlock should have known that he wouldn’t stay behind. The light changed, and John marched forward without him, trying to put his mind at ease by taking initiative – demonstrating there was nothing to fear. He heard a defeated sigh behind him and then hurried footsteps rushing to catch up. As they walked side by side, John could tell Sherlock still wasn’t thrilled he was coming along, but he didn’t say anything more on the subject.

They entered the Bank, and John instantly felt out of place in his wrinkled, stained trousers and oversized, borrowed shirt. Though there was no time to feel uncomfortable or even admire the grand arches and intricate interior design. Sherlock pulled him forward by his arm, leading him through the building. They exited out the back, where they entered a grand courtyard. Sherlock had mentioned he only had a hunch where the bomb was – there were only so many places they could have planted it that were isolated enough and weren’t restricted to authorized staff.

John looked up and around at the countless windows peering down at them.

“Stop looking,” Sherlock said.

“Anyone could see us.”

“I know. So don’t draw more attention to us by acting exactly as an intruder would.”

John forced his eyes to remain on the massive hedges in the center of the courtyard. Meanwhile, Sherlock crossed over to a nearby railing and peered over the edge. John followed and looked over. Down below was a narrowl, lowered platform, out of sight of all the windows.

“It’s down there. It has to be,” Sherlock said. He braced himself on the railing and hopped over, landing gracefully on his feet down below.

“Thanks for that. I guess I’ll just tear open all my stitches then,” John said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Swing your legs over and step onto this ledge.”

Sure enough, there was a small ledge right underneath the railing. From there, it would be easy to hop down. John leaned onto the railing and lifted one wobbly leg up. His abdomen stung, but it wasn’t unbearable. He held his breath in preparation for the second leg and lifted himself up and over. He landed with a thud on the ledge, his side burning and throbbing in pain . Gripping the rails for support, he accepted Sherlock’s assistance hopping down.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

“Fuck you.”

“Later. Okay, help me look.”

The platform was small, like an open, partially underground alleyway. It didn’t seem like there were a whole lot of places to hide a bomb, but almost immediately, Sherlock was on his hands and knees tearing up floorboards.

“Sherlock, what the hell, you can’t just-”

He tore up the fifth one and exposed what was undoubtedly a bomb. Black, red, and green wires twisted in loops around a green chip. A large, flashing timer sat front and center, blinking 00:04:22.

“Shit,” John breathed, staring shock-ridden at the timer. “We have four minutes to stop this thing. Please tell me you know how to dismantle a bomb.”

“Of course, I do. There’s always an off-switch,” Sherlock said, crouching down by it. “Don’t they teach you that in . . .” He waved his hand flippantly, trailing off.

“In medical school? Afraid n-”

Suddenly a massive arm wrapped around John’s midriff, trapping his arms. A cold barrel pressed to the side of his head. Sherlock looked up at the commotion, and his face instantly paled.

“Put your hands up and step back,” came a gruff voice – not one John had heard before.

Sherlock raised his hands but remained in his kneeled position. “Might I ask who the hell you are?” he demanded.

“I’m guessing one of the men I – or Phil – was supposed to coordinate with today,” John said, struggling to break loose.

Sherlock swallowed and looked between him and the man holding him captive. “You realize,” he began in a shaky voice. “That by being here, you’ll be the first to die in the bomb’s blast.”

“I’m not an idiot,” the man said. “I believe in Evans’ cause. Dying sending a message like his is the most honorable way to go.”

“Suicide bomber,” Sherlock said casually, as though discussing professions with a new neighbor. “But I’m guessing Evans isn’t among those who’ll be dying for this noble cause?”

The man tightened his hold on John’s torso. John assessed his height, size, and strength as much as he could. He knew that if he wasn’t injured, he could easily take him down without getting shot. Part of him even thought he could still do it in in his state. He locked eyes with Sherlock, who gave him a hard look that clearly meant “no.”

John scowled at him. But a moment later, a door opened behind Sherlock, and a man stepped out – Tony.

“Well, Sherlock, gotta say we didn’t expect you to show up,” he said. “Good thing Roger was stationed here just in case.”

An amused little smirk crossed Sherlock’s face.

“And gotta say, I didn’t expect you to be one of the disposable lives assigned to keep watch ten feet away from the bombs.’”

John snorted and Tony glowered from where he stood behind Sherlock.

“I was just about to leave actually. Given that there are three minutes left before this thing goes off,” Tony said. He put a gun to the back of Sherlock’s head, and John’s amusement dropped clean off his face. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping back and getting the hell out of here. I’m sure we’d both rather not die today.”

Sherlock glanced up, and John was reminded of the night they met. They’d ended up in a similar, seemingly inescapable standoff – both trapped with guns to their heads. That night, they had locked eyes and silently communicated with a level of familiarity that shouldn’t have been possible between strangers. The corner of John’s lips quirked up at the memory. And Sherlock - with the same mischievous twinkle he had in his eye that night – gave him the look that meant “now."

John whipped his knife out of his jacket and stabbed Roger in the thigh. The burly man fell to the ground swearing and clutching his thigh, as did the gun. Spurts of blood poured out of the wound, and John knew he’d be dead in a matter of minutes.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was caught in a grapple with Tony. Both of them had secure grips on the gun. It was just a matter of whose strength would win out. John ran over to help, glancing at the bomb on his way over. The timer read 00:02:09.

He grabbed Tony around the waist and put the knife to his neck. “Drop it,” he growled. Tony reluctantly obeyed when he used the knife to force him backwards. The moment the gun clattered to the floor, Sherlock bolted back to the bomb and got to work. 

“Come on, Sherlock, hurry it up!” he shouted through gritted teeth, struggling to maintain his hold on Tony.

Sherlock’s hands frantically hovered over the wires. John could see his brain momentarily glitching  before he jumped back into action. With a few more snips and a flick of the off-switch, the timer froze at 00:00:38.  

A dead weight lifted off John’s chest. “Thank god,” he breathed. A relieved smile washed over Sherlock’s face. In their brief moment of celebration, Tony delivered a powerful elbow to John’s gut. With a shout, he fell to his knees, feeling like his middle had been set on fire.

Tony scrambled to retrieve his gun. Sherlock, quick as a flash, rapidly wiggled the off-switch back and forth. As John struggled to his feet, he wondered what he was trying to do, until Sherlock pulled hard and the little knob came clean off - permanently disabling anyone from flipping it back on.

“No!” Tony shouted. 

A sloppily aimed bullet came flying their way. Sherlock and John ducked and darted towards the door that Roger had emerged from, which took them up a dark flight of stairs. They ran up until they reached another door, which opened up to the ground floor of the Bank. They found themselves once again surrounded by posh décor and elegant architecture. A bright exit sign down the hall caught their attention. Since there were no people around, they half-jogged towards it and exited out the back of the building.  

John thought they’d lost Tony, but with a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw him exit from a different back door. What’s worse, two men on opposite corners of the street were giving them both the stink eye.

“Sherlock . . .” John muttered, looking between them.

It seemed that some signal had been given. Tony and the two men all beelined directly towards them. Dropping all pretenses, John and Sherlock bolted down the street. And sure enough, the three men chased after them in unison.  

They wove in and out of alleys and behind buildings. Shots fired from behind, and the bullets ricocheted around the surrounding brick walls. Sherlock was a faster runner than John. Naturally, he fell behind a bit, clutching his side where his stitches were less than thrilled about the jerky movements. He caught up when Sherlock ducked down an alley, but found a tall metal gate blocking their path. He knew Sherlock could easily leap up the horizontal rungs and be on his way. But for him, with his height - or lack thereof - and injuries, it was out of the question. He looked to Sherlock and could tell he was thinking the same thing.

“Go,” John said. “It’s probably you they’re after anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

John faced the mouth of the alley, ready to face their pursuers’. In his peripheral vision, he saw Sherlock prop himself up onto one of the gate’s metal rungs. He felt an unexpected pang in his heart. Closing his eyes, he listened for the sound of Sherlock climbing over and running off without him, but it never came. Instead, Sherlock kicked off the gate, grabbed onto something, and landed back down.

John looked and saw that he’d lowered a ladder that led up the side of the building.

“Can you climb this?” Sherlock asked.

The rungs were much closer together than the ones on the gate. It would certainly be an easier climb.

“I think so."

Sherlock crouched and lifted him by the hips. “Then go,” he grunted.

John grabbed the bottom rung and pulled himself up, letting Sherlock carry most of his weight until he secured his footing. Around the corner, footsteps were getting closer. He climbed as fast as he could, but each step felt like a knife being plunged in his stomach all over again. Glancing down, he saw Sherlock watching him from the ground.

“Sherlock, go!”

Sherlock held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded. At that very moment, Tony and his men turned into the alley. In a matter of seconds, Sherlock was up and over the gate, dodging the bullets that came flying his way. John continued to climb, laughing internally at the sight of the three morons struggling to hop the gate as effortlessly as Sherlock had. By now, he would surely be far gone, and John was almost at the top of the ladder. Just a few rungs away.

“Oi, up there!” he heard from below, most definitely directed at him.

_ Shit. _

He picked up his pace. Each reach of his arms stretched the stitches at his sides. He thought he even felt a few threads snap, though perhaps he’d imagined it. He clenched as bullets flew up at him, bouncing off the rungs. Right as he pulled himself onto the rooftop, vibrations shook the ladder. They were climbing after him.

He sprinted across the rooftop until he found stairs descending back down the other side. Step by step he hobbled down, ignoring the stinging heat in his abdomen. Two more bullets hit the bricks above his head.

“Don’t shoot!” came a shout from above. “Tony’s orders!”

With a quick glance up, he saw only two men running down after him. Tony was nowhere to be found. John made it to the bottom of the stairs and continued running. Though his run was now more of a handicapped jog. He put a hand to his side, feeling a dampness that no doubt came from his opening wound. Behind him, the men caught up in a matter of seconds. John braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the tackle that knocked him to the ground.

He kicked and struggled as the two men hoisted him up and dragged him out to the street. There, the same black van that had first taken John to the motel was waiting – with Tony in the driver’s seat. They opened the back doors and dumped him inside.

***

The ride was torturous. Each little bump smacked John’s head into the trunk’s interior. His body was cramped in an unnatural position. Any time he tried to adjust, another jostle would knock him down again.

The van eventually stopped, and the doors opened again. Before John could so much as shield his eyes from the beating sun, he was hauled out and thrown on the ground. His head met the concrete with a nasty crack. From the sound alone, he could tell he had a decent concussion. He lifted onto his hands and knees with a groan.

In front of him was an old, wilting house. The two men hoisted him up. His feet dragged behind him as they hauled him up the porch and inside the house. He knew that if he tried, he could have resisted a little. But it was clear that a fight in his condition would only worsen things.

Inside, the house was nearly all grey, except for the faded graffiti covering the walls. John and the men remained hidden in the dark shadows streaking throughout the house, but up ahead, a man sat in a tattered armchair. Even in the dim, clouded light, John recognized the silhouette of Mitchell Evans.

Tony grabbed him by the back of his shirt and a fistful of his hair and dragged him forward.

“Hey!” John protested, trying to dislodge his hand. 

“Did you kill him?” Evans asked.

“No. But we got something just as good.”

Evans swiveled around in the chair. Tony tossed John forward into the light, and he collapsed painfully at his feet. He hit his head again, in the same spot as before, and cursed under his breath. His ears rang, and when he blinked, there were four blurry feet in front of him instead of two. He looked up, and the two Evans staring down at him merged into one. It took a moment for recognition to spark in those grey,’ hawkish eyes.  

“If it isn’t out little traitor . . .” John heard as black spots danced into his vision.

 

**********

The bullets had stopped flying at Sherlock shortly after he’d hopped the gate, but he still ran until his legs couldn’t carry him anymore

He collapsed against the wall of his old alley, putting a hand to his racing heart. His burning lungs gasped for air and his throat cried for water. He put two fingers to his pulse, waiting for it to settle as he stared out the mouth of the alley. He and John had never agreed on a meeting place if they ever split up, but he hoped that – like himself – this would be the first place he’d think to go. He listened for the familiar patter of footsteps, but the street remained silent. Five minutes, passed. Ten.

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket but remembered that John didn’t have his with him – it was still back at his flat. His fingers twitched over the screen and eventually selected Sally’s name. Perhaps John had gone to Bart’s, he thought. Sally didn’t answer after two tries. Neither did Molly.

His insides twisted with worry.  _ John is fine, _ he assured himself. John probably thought to meet him somewhere else. Perhaps he’d gone to Imperial College London. It was a logical place to go – the next bomb they were supposed to stop. Sherlock pushed off the wall and started on his way, ignoring the churning nausea telling him something was off.  

**********

When John blinked awake, he found himself staring up at a dull, grey ceiling. It took a few seconds for the yellowish stains up there to stop swirling and remain still. He tried to sit up, but sharp stabs of pain instantly shot through every muscle in his body.

With a groan, he collapsed back down, craning his neck to look around the room. It was small, minimally furnished, and coated in dull grey. The only thing of interest was the map of London taped on the wall. John squinted at the five red circles.  _ Hang on,  _ he thought. Hadn’t Sherlock mentioned seeing a similar map at Evans’ house?

Sweat dampened his neckline, and his heart began to race. Before he could so much as try to sit up again, the door opened. A dark silhouette stood tall in the doorway.

Evans approached, and his shadow fell over the mattress. When he stepped clearly into view, the scarred half of his face stayed frozen while the other side gave way for a twisted half-smile. John stayed deathly still, hardly daring to breathe.

Suddenly, Evans pulled out a gun. John panicked at the sight of it, but he calmed somewhat when he merely placed it on the bedside table - “to save for later” was the obvious message. He then perched himself on the side of the bed, and a rush of adrenaline burst through John’s veins. He nearly bolted up, but a sharp pinch at his chest stopped him.

“I don’t think so,” Evans said.

John looked down. The point of a knife dug into his shirt, keeping him flat on the bed. His own butterfly knife – John hadn’t realized it had been taken from him.

“What the hell do you want from me? Why’d you bring me here?” he asked.

Evans smiled at his demanding tone. “Would you have preferred for me to put a bullet in your head and dump your body in the street for Sherlock to find?” John swallowed the little saliva left in his mouth, leaving it bone dry. “Because I could’ve,” Evans continued. “Know why I didn’t?”

“Why,” he said flatly.

“Because killing you is pointless. We both know Sherlock is the brains behind your little operation. You . . . you’re a glorified errand boy.”

A stab of shame cut John to the core in a way he never expected. He opened his mouth to offer a defense but found that he had none. After all, every important deduction and plan of action so far had indeed come from Sherlock. What had he done besides trail behind him, following orders?

Evans smirked at his lack of a response. “So here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’re going to stay here while Sherlock runs aimlessly around the city. He’ll have to choose between stopping the attack or coming to rescue you. He can’t do both.”

John swallowed again, trying to keep the panic out of his eyes, even as Evans traced the knife along his chin. He flinched away from the sharp point. His heart pounded so violently, he was certain it was visible through his shirt.

“But I don’t think it’ll be a hard decision,” he continued, leaning over him. “I think the moment he notices his little damsel in distress is gone, he’ll come running to save you.”

_ Oh fuck you, _ John thought. He and Sherlock had saved each other countless times, but he was almost certain he had the higher count. Though Evans’ taunts still echoed in his head –  _ glorified errand boy _ . . .  _ damsel in distress.  _ He couldn’t help but acknowledge there was an element of truth to it, especially now. 

“But we have some time before he’ll show up . . .” Evans said. “And you, John, have made my life a living hell the last few days. It’s only polite to return the favor, don’t you think?”

He leered over him, and John’s mind took him back to the motel. He remembered how he felt when Evans had stood between his restrained and parted legs. Like the grimiest insects were crawling up his spine. Like he wanted to claw his skin off just because Evans had touched him. He remembered the terror that pulsed through him as Evans’ eyes raked over him like he was a meal. That same wicked gleam possessed his eyes now. He suddenly grabbed the bottom of his shirt, and John’s heart spiked in terror.

His body reacted instinctively. He knocked the knife-wielding hand away and kicked up as hard as he could. His injured abdomen cried in protest, but it was worth it when Evans stumbled backwards in shock. John reveled in his victory, but it was short-lived. He was back on the bed in a second flat, sitting atop his hips. His meaty hand locked around his throat. John scrambled to escape as his airways were cut off by his unrelenting grip.

“Don’t do that again.”

Evans spoke quietly, but it was the most blood chilling thing John had ever heard. The playfully creepy act had vanished. In its place was a ruthless monster out for blood. Their noses nearly touched.

“Don’t fucking do that again.”

He squeezed tighter for emphasis and then released. John coughed and gasped for breath. He didn’t even register his hand being lifted to the headboard until something cold locked around his wrist – a handcuff. Panic surged through his blood.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he yelled. His voice sounded hoarse and feral, unrecognizable to his own ears.

Evans looped the chain around a vertical slat on the headboard. John swung and thrashed his other arm. But in a matter of seconds, both wrists were locked up.  He pulled and pulled on the cuffs with the desperation of a crazed man on death row.

“Cut it out,” Evans said, still braced over him. The knife was back at his neck.

“You’re sick,” John said, breathless with fury. “You sick,  _ perverted  _ bastard.”

Evans smiled, embracing the label with ease. John was now all but hyperventilating. Suddenly, the knife was under the hem of his shirt. One clean slice tore it all the way up to his neckline. John arched up with the knife, as though that would somehow keep him covered.

“I presume that was Victor?” Evans asked, in reference to his bandaged stab wound. John bit his tongue. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Not while such intense, fuming anger burned him up from the inside. His breaths came in low, nearly animalistic growls. His glare contained a heat stronger than the sun.

Evans looked thoughtfully over the layered gauze for a moment, then pressed the hilt of the knife into it. John couldn’t clamp down on the pain quickly enough to keep silent.

**********

Sherlock had been walking for nearly fifteen minutes, guided only by the mental map of London ingrained in his head. He crossed streets and wove through shortcuts in a hurry. Though something continued to gnaw at him. The further he walked, the more he was weighed down by the feeling that his earlier deductions were wrong. Dead wrong. It was like there was a compass in his brain pointing him to John, and he was intentionally walking in the polar opposite direction of it. His queasiness worsened, rather than easing up, like he knew he was only increasing the distance he’d have to travel when he eventually turned around.

A passing car honked as he jaywalked across the street. He looked up, and something on the sidewalk caught his eye – a slender silhouette. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the street The striking familiarity of it was like a knock in the head.  It was a woman. Her back was turned to him as she waved for a cab, but he still recognized that lean build, leather jacket, and dark, ravenous hair. His feet carried him forward as though walking on air. She couldn’t be who he thought she was. It wasn’t possible. The woman raised her hand again, and Sherlock’s heart leapt in his chest at the familiar long, red fingernails, filed to a rounded point.

He put a hand to her shoulder, and she turned around. Her bright red lips parted in shock.

“Irene?"

“Sherlock,” she said softly.

His mouth suddenly went dry. A million questions raced through his mind, but none formed into coherent words. “I . . . I thought you fled. No one knew where you were. Not Evans-”

“Yeah. I’m good, aren’t I?”

Sherlock looked into her clear, watery blue eyes. The unnerving ache in his gut calmed. In her sharp, pale face, he saw the answer to his troubles. A lifeline thrown to him by some mysterious guardian angel.  A grateful smile graced his lips.

“Irene,” he said warmly. “I need you. I need your help. Something awful-"

“Yeah, can’t right now,” she said, putting her hand out again. “A bit preoccupied with something at the moment.”

“Just listen. Please. Evans has planned an attack on the city. He’s been working on it for years. He’s going to bomb Buckingham Palace-”

“St. Bart’s and the others, yeah.” Sherlock gaped at her, completely dumbfounded. She lowered her hand and looked him over curiously in return. “How did you know?”

“Because . . . John and I have been spying on him for weeks now. How do  _ you _ know?”

She gave him a pointed frown. “Come on, if you could figure it out, what makes you think I couldn’t?” Sherlock didn’t reply, and she gave him a playful smirk. “I stumbled upon some emails on his computer. I was going to try to flee the country but decided to stop him when I figured out what was going on. He kept all the info in this motel somewhere. I broke in and got everything I needed in one stop. I don’t know what you were wasting your time doing for weeks.”

A lightbulb clicked in Sherlock’s head. “John said something about a break-in when he was at the motel. That was you?”

Irene stuck her hand out again, and this time, a cabbie noticed her.

“I don’t know who this John is,” she said. “But yes. That was me.”

“Where are you going?” he asked her.

“Buckingham.”

“There’s no need. Bomb squads are headed to both Palaces. We took care of the Bank. All that’s left is Imperial and Bart’s.”

Irene’s large eyes tore into him. She didn’t even acknowledge the cab pulling up in front of her. For a moment, her expression remained solemn and stony. Then it melted into something vulnerable and raw – unlike like anything he’d ever seen from her. “You know, any other time I’d call you a fool for calling the police,” she said quietly. “But today, that was a good call.” Her voice cracked just slightly at the end, but it didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you know there was a bomb at the Bank?"

She blinked rapidly and looked away, but he could see the whites of her eyes slowly reddening. “I knew I couldn’t stop all five by myself,” she said, looking just past his ear. “I had to . . .  choose.”

The last word came out as a quiet, ashamed confession. Sherlock reached out and gently touched her arm.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said. “None of us can do this alone. We have help.” She smiled softly without making eye contact. She touched the handle of the cab but didn’t open it. “Irene . . .” he started again, speaking gently. “John – he’s hurt. They took him, I – I can’t. I need,” he begged.

“Go find him.” A look of understanding softened her face. “I’ll take care of Imperial. I can handle it. Go.”

“You know how to dismantle a bomb?” She gave him that same, pointed look, telling him he was stupid for even asking. “You’re right. Sorry,” he said. 

“Take this cab.” She opened the door for him. “I’ll get the next one. There’s at least thirty minutes before the bomb is supposed to go off. I have time.”

Sherlock looked into her eyes. Between them passed a long history of sacrifices they’d made for one another, times they’d held each other up, missions they’d teamed up on. In his heart, he knew this would be no different than any of those times. Irene could be counted on to handle anything. He nodded at her and slid into the back of the car.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

Sherlock paused for a moment. That inner compass was speaking to him again. This time, he listened.

 

**********

Evans pointed the knife right on the raw, unhealed burn on John’s neck. It felt like the entire blade was being plunged through his throat. John groaned into the soaked, makeshift gag that had been stuffed in his mouth.

“I’m starting to doubt your knight in shining armor is coming,” Evans said.  John scrunched his nose at the foul breath puffing onto his face. “Maybe he realized lap dogs aren’t worth sacrificing the city for.”

Fuming rage boiled his blood. John leaned into the anger, if only to stop Evans’ taunts from really getting to him. Suddenly, he was flipped onto his stomach like he weighed nothing. The chain connecting his cuffed wrists crossed overhead, further restricting his movement. A heavy weight draped over his back, and John’s body turned to stone. Primal instincts kicked in, and he bucked and thrashed like a wild animal. A mouth was at his ear, breathing hotly onto his skin. He nearly groaned in repulsion but swallowed it down, along with some vomit that had risen into his throat.

“I wish I’d done this with Sherlock when I had the chance. Especially after Victor spoke so highly of him,” Evans said. “I would’ve, but he paid me for his hits by working for me. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case for many others, including his little whore friend.”

A meaty hand fiddled with his belt. A horrified scream caught in John’s throat, but never made it past his lips.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open.

“John!” came a deep voice that he’d never been so desperate to hear.

Evans was shoved off of him in a second. He heard punches flying, followed by a loud thud. The two of them were grappling on the floor. Sherlock was a skilled fighter, but Evans was larger and stronger. He had Sherlock pinned in less than a minute with his hands around his throat. Sherlock twisted and flailed, but couldn’t escape his iron grip. John looked helplessly between Sherlock – eyes reddening, arms going limp – and Evans – red in the cheeks, face scrunched in violent rage. A dead weight dropped in his stomach as he realized it was entirely up to him to save Sherlock.

He yanked on the cuffs in desperation, feeling helpless as a pinned butterfly. It was then that he caught sight of the gun Evans had placed on the nightstand. Rolling onto his back, he inched his hips to the side of the bed and reached out with his foot. With a big of wiggling and shifting, he dragged it to the closest corner of the table and used both feet to pick it up. With an upward swing of his hips, he delivered the gun right to his handcuffed hands. On the ground, Sherlock’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head. His arms fell limp at his sides.

It was difficult to aim the gun, given that John could hardly see the barrel. He fired once, and the bullet hit the wall. Evans looked up, his face twisted into a hideous scowl. John fired again and missed by an even larger margin. Evans stood, but before he could lunge onto the bed and wrestle the gun from him, John shot again. The bullet went through his shoulder. Blood burst from the spot as he stumbled backwards. The shock on his face was more satisfying than if John had killed him with his bare hands. He waited until Evans looked him dead in the eye – determined to revel in the moment the life died out of this foul man – and then fired again. A bloody hole tore his chest open. He fell backwards and slumped down the wall. Within a few seconds, he went completely still, his dulled eyes staring off at nothing.

Down on the floor, Sherlock was hacking and coughing for breath. John tried to shout his name but was muffled by the gag. He wriggled on the bed, frustrated by his inability to move. Sherlock crawled over to Evans’ corpse and fished around in his pockets for a moment. He then rushed to the bed with a small key and freed John’s hands with two small clicks.

“John,” he whispered tenderly, pulling the slobber-soaked gag out of his mouth. His eyes were swimming with guilt-ridden tears. John set the gun aside, rubbing his sore wrists, and reached up to cradle Sherlock’s face.

“Hey. It’s okay,” John said. Sherlock collapsed onto him, burying his face in his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he repeated, pulling him in tight. “We’re okay.”

Sherlock shook in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.”

“Oh hush. I’m fine."

“How’s your . . .” Sherlock sat up and folded back his torn shirt to look at his wound. 

John put a hand to his side. Through the gauze, he could feel that his stitches were irritated and swollen, but had held together. “I’m okay,” he said. “Really.”

Sherlock’s eyes glistened again, and he lowered himself back on his chest. “Oh John . . .”

John shushed him and stroked up and down his back. Outside these walls, he knew their city was in mortal danger. The fate of thousands of people rested in their hands. But right now, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but lie there and breathe for a moment. His heart was still racing. His body was numb with shock from what had almost happened to him. He hugged Sherlock close, offering him comfort but also taking it himself - as a child would feel comforted by hugging his teddy bear. He closed his eyes and thanked whatever guardian angel had his back for sending Sherlock to him.  

**********

For the entire cab ride to St. Bart’s, Sherlock and John sat pressed together in the center of the backseat. Sherlock’s fingers remained tightly interlaced with John’s. Not even a hurricane could have pulled him away. Sherlock glanced at John, as he had been doing every so often. John’s eyes had been fixed out the window since they’d gotten in the cab. His gaze was distant. Every now and then he would release a shaky breath. His iron tight grip on Sherlock’s hand seemed to be the only thing keeping him present. Sherlock watched him closely, feeling helpless, like John was drifting away in his head and there was nothing he could do to pull him back.

The cab suddenly lurched to the side. The unmistakable wail of sirens approached from behind, and Sherlock turned to see a swarm of police cars zooming past them – more than he’d ever seen in his life.

Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone and called Molly for the fourth time. Still no reply. Nor from Sally. The only thing he saw on his phone was a text from an unknown number.

_ Done. _

That’s all it said.  _ Irene, _ he thought with a smile playing at his lips.

“Did the bomb go off then?” John asked suddenly. It was quiet, barely audible over the soft rumble of the car. But Sherlock heard. He looked at John, who was still staring out the window. “Imperial College,” he clarified.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I ran into . . . an old friend. Irene. I don’t know if you remember . . . She promised to take care of it so I could come find you.”

John looked down at his lap for a moment, and then finally up at Sherlock. There was something troubled in his eyes.

“I’m sorry you were put in that position,” he said. “Of having to choose which one to go after. I never would’ve wanted that, but Evans . . .”

He broke eye contact again and swallowed. Sherlock gave his hand a squeeze and waited patiently for him to continue.

“He didn’t kill me because . . . he knew it wouldn’t affect anything. He said all that mattered was keeping _ you _ away from the bombs. That I . . .” He trailed off. His voice had gone slightly hoarse. “I don’t know,” he said, releasing a pained, uncomfortable laugh. “I suppose I’m just letting him get to my head. I mean, he was partially right. If you hadn’t run into Irene. . .”

Sherlock burned with anger at the mere suggestion that John was anything but extraordinary. The very thought that someone had planted such doubts in his head was unacceptable.

“John. Listen to me very carefully,” he started, speaking slow but clear. “Without you, none of the bombs would have been stopped. None. Alright? Without you . . . Evans would’ve caught me eavesdropping on their secret meeting that night and killed me. I never would’ve discovered there were four other targets. We never would’ve escaped from the motel.  _ You _ discovered that the attack had been moved to today. John . . .  _ you  _ killed Evans. That was you. All you.”

Even in the dark cab, Sherlock could see that some moisture had welled up in John’s eyes. He knew John was not one for emotional displays. But it seemed that what he’d experienced at the crack house had shaken him more than he’d expected. Hot fury once again filled Sherlock to the brim.

“John. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Whatever Evans said while he was . . .” While he was making John feel powerless. While he was degrading him, using him as bait. While he was taking advantage of his psychological distress to pour poisonous words in his ear. “It doesn’t matter.  _ He  _ doesn’t matter.

John squeezed his hand. “Thanks,” he mumbled, though he sounded unconvinced. “All that aside though. I still hate the position he put you in. I couldn’t imagine how difficult that was for you. I mean, if you were trapped somewhere and I had to choose between you or hundreds of innocent lives, I can’t say with confidence I would’ve done the right thing.”

“Well I  _ can  _ say with confidence that I wouldn’t have done the right thing.”

Sherlock turned to look out the window, though he could feel John’s eyes still on him. Outside, evening was rolling in. The sun was low in the sky. He thought of St. Bart’s, the place they were heading to now. The last target of the five, and the one it had all started with. He thought of the building itself, standing tall and proud as it always had. And he thought of what would have happened if he and John had never met. In his mind’s eye, he saw Bart’s crumbling to the ground. Fire all around them, glass shattering, people shrieking. He envisioned the same happening to Buckingham, the Bank, and all the others. He imagined the lives lost, the trauma, the heartbreak from such a tragedy. He imagined how broken their city would be and how little would be left worth fighting for.

For him, all that was left was John. If they failed today, he would have gallons of blood on his hands forever. He would hear the shrieking of dying people every night as long as he lived. But through it all, he would have John. John would be his rock. Without him, he’d collapse under the weight of all the lives he failed to save. John would keep him from losing himself in his head, falling victim to the needle when it became too much. John would be there, because their love produced a flame more powerful than any bomb. It was more than a flame. It was a billowing fire, a raging blaze, an everlasting inferno that would never die out. They would be there for one another, win or lose, today and until the end.  

Sherlock didn’t talk for the rest of the ride, and neither did John. A calm yet apprehensive silence had settled between them as they neared their destination. The stakes weighed on them, but they kept each other steady with their locked hands resting between them.

The cab pulled up to St. Bart’s and let them out. What Sherlock saw was not at all what he expected. The place was absolutely swarming with cops. Everywhere he looked were men and women in blue, interviewing pedestrians, taking notes, barking orders into the phone. Sherlock ducked under the caution tape and held it up for John, desperately looking around for a familiar face.

“Excuse me, sir. The two of you need to leave the area right away,” said a nearby officer.

“Sherlock! John!” came a voice to their left. Greg Lestrade came jogging up to them. “It’s okay! They’re with me. Come on.”

“What’s going on?” Sherlock asked, following Lestrade’s brisk job up to the building. “Have you located the bomb?” 

“Sort of.”

Lestrade led them to one of the underground floors of the hospital. They jogged through empty halls, lit by low, yellow lighting. Their footsteps echoed ominously around them. They finally entered an office where countless police officers were huddled around a computer.

“For the love of Christ, could I please have an inch of space?” came a sharp voice that Sherlock recognized as Sally Donovan’s.

John pushed through the crowd of officers, making way for Sherlock. Sally was sitting in front of the computer with her hands buried in her frizzed hair.  Her shirt was torn off the shoulder, and her eye was bruised. It looked like she’d been caught in a minor fight. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, she and the officers had encountered some thugs guarding the bomb like he and John had.

“Let him through!” Lestrade barked.

“Sally, what’s going on?” Sherlock asked once he made it to her.

“The bomb is wired up all throughout the hospital. It’s impossible to figure out exactly which parts will be destroyed if it goes off. But it’s all hooked to this computer somehow. I  _ should  _ be able to shut it down from here.” She twisted her fingers into her tangled hair again and pulled. “I just can’t . . . I’ve been at it for at least an hour.”

“How much time do we have? Two hours?” Sherlock asked, looking at the timer on the screen.

“I don’t know. I did something earlier and the timer froze. It’s been stuck at 02:46:13 for a while now.”

“Have they evacuated the patients?” John asked.

“Molly’s supposed to make that call. The thing is, it’s humanly impossible to get everyone out, and like I said, we don’t know which parts of the hospital are going to be blown out. So if they started evacuating, they’d almost have to guess which lives to save.”

Sally leaned forward and typed on the keyboard for a minute. She clicked somewhere on the screen, and nothing happened.

“Urgh!” she shouted in frustration.

“Let me see,” Sherlock said. He scanned over the screen and zeroed in on small font in the corner.

“Source . . .” he read out loud, pointing with his finger. “Do you think this could be where the bomb is located?”

“Maybe, but I have no idea what that means,” Sally said.

The only thing that followed the word “source” was a long series of letters and numbers. Like a code. Sherlock leaned in and scrutinized it.

“It is. It’s the location of the bomb.”

“What? How?” John asked.

“Look. This sequence here is London’s X-Y coordinates on Earth. Then the numbers for St. Bart’s street address. Then I’m presuming the remaining numbers and letters correspond to a specific room.”

John, Sally, and the officers stared at the code, following along.

“Yes,” John said. “That’s a wing on the floor above ours and a room number. Brilliant.”

“Sally, is your phone on you?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I dropped it when Molly and I-”

“Okay, it doesn’t matter.” Sherlock wheeled around to the nearest officer. “Give me your radio.”

“What, why?”

“Just give it to him!” Lestrade yelled.

Sherlock took it, along with John’s arm, and pulled him out of the crowd. “Sally, you stay there. Someone give her a radio.”

Sherlock and John jogged to the nearest faculty lift, which gave them access to the floor they needed. When the doors dinged open, they bolted out.

“Wing C,” John said, leading the way.

They ran and ran through the empty floor, quickly locating the correct room. It was an empty storage closet with another door in the back. Sure enough, behind that door was a bomb – flashing lights, wires, and all.

Sherlock kneeled on the ground and studied it.

“Oh my god, Sherlock, look,” John said, pointing to the timer. It read 00:06:23.

“Six minutes. Okay,” Sherlock muttered. “Do you have your knife?” John pulled it out of his jacket. “Okay, when I say so, cut these two wires at the same time.”

John positioned himself, and Sherlock put his fingers over two different buttons.

“Okay. 1, 2, 3.”

At the same time, John cut the wires and Sherlock pushed the buttons. Sherlock closed his eyes and braced himself, just in case they had messed up the timing.

“Everything good?” John asked.

“We didn’t get blown to bits, so yes.” He released shaky, distressed sigh and leaned over the bomb.  “Okay, off-switch, off-switch,” he muttered, knowing he sounded mad.

“There?” John suggested, pointing at a little silver knob.

Sherlock looked, and relief poured through him. “Yes.”

He flipped the switch, and the timer stopped at 00:04:41.

John slumped to his knees. “Oh, thank god.”

“No, not yet,” Sherlock said. “It’s not completely off.” He brought the officer’s radio up to his mouth and tuned in. “Sally?”

A moment passed and then the radio came to life with static.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Whatever you were doing before, try it again now.”

The static disappeared. A moment passed. And another. Sherlock and John locked eyes as they waited. Their heartbeats seemed to fill the room, replacing the bomb’s clock as a time marker. The absence of the static seemed to be a sound of its own – a dooming silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sally’s voice came back.

“It worked! It’s off!” she cried breathlessly. Cheers erupted among the officers.

The radio went silent again, and Sherlock and John were left alone in the silence. In an instant, they collapsed forward in each other’s arms. Sherlock swooped in and kissed him, cupping the back of his head with a fierce grip. Their lips smashed in an uncoordinated dance, like they had been reduced to their most basic, primeval instincts and gratitude for dear life. Sherlock clutched John in relief. He could have wept, if he weren’t so drained and overwhelmed. He tucked his head into John’s shoulder, clinging to him as though he were a lifeline. The two of them remained there, on their knees, taking and giving comfort, rejoicing in their success. The burden they’d been carrying lifted off, leaving Sherlock feeling reborn, like his life had started anew. It was over. They were safe.

***

Sherlock and John remained clutched in each other’s embraces until Lestrade found them in the storage closet. They each hugged him in turn and pretended not to notice when he wiped a small tear from his eye. 

He led them back to the office. The officers had dispersed, and Sally was left alone, sitting with her head in her hands. To another viewer, she would have seemed distraught. But the three of them knew she was feeling release of stress so intense that it took a physical toll on her. Sherlock helped her up, and John put an arm around her in comfort.

Lestrade led them out of Bart’s, where there seemed to be just as much pandemonium as before. Except now, it was a calm sort of chaos. Controlled. Quiet. Officers bustled around with urgent jobs to do, anxious and serious. But there was no panic. There was no danger. Flashing blue and red lights caught the corner of Sherlock’s eye, and he saw three officers slamming Sean’s head to the roof of the car.

Lestrade led them to Bart’s labs through a different entrance than the one they’d come from. Inside, there were still far more blue uniforms than white coats.

The first person Sherlock noticed was Molly, talking calmly to a cop. She was nursing a bleeding lip and her cheek was swollen. Perhaps she’d been caught in the same scuffle as Sally, he thought. As she paused to let the cop catch up with his notes, her eyes wandered and caught Sherlock’s. She gave him a soft, tired smile. One of solidarity and reassurance.

Sally spotted an officer she knew and made a beeline for her. Lestrade got swept up among a group of his colleagues, leaving Sherlock and John alone. Other pathologists in the lab were being interviewed. Some were on their phones with loved ones. No one seemed to notice them, but they were content, standing hand in hand in the middle of the buzzing action.

A hand softly touched his shoulder. He turned around and saw Molly.

“Hey,” she said quietly, looking at them both. “You alright?”

“A bit shaken. But we’re as good as we can be,” John said.

“And how are you?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, you know. Glad we’re all alive.”

“Thank you for being here, Molly,” John said. “We really appreciate what you and Sally have done.”

Molly smiled tiredly at him before looking to Sherlock. “One of the men you told us about was here earlier."

“Sean.”

“Yes. They arrested him. But we got him to confess where he thinks the other guy might be. Tony Hudson, I think.”

Lestrade appeared at Molly’s shoulder, putting a gentle hand on her back. Molly turned and allowed herself to be wrapped in a secure, one-armed hug.

“You fellas talking about Evans’ accomplice?” he asked.

“I was telling them you’re starting your search,” Molly said.

“Yeah. Him and Evans are still on the run. Why don’t you guys come with us? You’ve known them the longest out of all of us.”

“Evans is dead,” Sherlock said. “John shot him.”

“In self-defense,” John added.

“Yes, it was nothing short of heroic.”

Lestrade looked between the two of them. “Oh . . . alright. Well. We’ll talk about that later. Think you can help us find Hudson though?”

“Sure can,” John said.

Lestrade and Molly shared a kiss that lasted just a moment longer than a normal parting kiss would have. When they separated, Lestrade guided Sherlock and John back outside and through the swarm of police.

“Oh, by the way, don’t worry about shooting Evans,” Lestrade said as soon as they were in his car. “You guys saved many lives today. I’ll personally ensure nothing will be held against you, including whatever criminal records you already have.”

Sherlock and John looked at each other.

“Wow, uh . . . thank you,” John said.

“See John, I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

John playfully nudged Sherlock in the ribs. Up front, Lestrade chuckled, watching them in the rear view mirror.

“Seriously. I want to emphasize how glad I am that you agreed to let me help. Us. The police, I mean. I’ll see to it that you aren’t punished one bit for it,” he said. 

His words warmed Sherlock’s heart. He smiled to himself, tactfully ignoring John’s I-told-you-so look. “Thank you, Lestrade. I must say I had my doubts, but your police work has been . . . adequate.”

In the mirror, Sherlock saw an amused sparkle light his eyes.

“Greg, please,” he said warmly.

The car lurched forward and maneuvered carefully through the officers and pedestrians. Once back on the main road, they zoomed away, leaving Bart’s hospital a small blip behind them.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this chapter! :) It was difficult, not knowing what a lot of these locations look like in person, or how bombs work. I did barely any research about the bomb stuff because I didn’t wanna get put on some FBI watchlist for my Google searches lol. So please excuse all the errors that I’m sure are there.
> 
> Thanks for reading and for sticking with this fic as I always take forever to update! <3 I appreciate it!


	14. Hello and Goodbye

Dusk had fallen over the city, casting a peaceful blanket over the day’s prior madness. The streets were just as busy as on a typical London evening, though somehow, the zipping cars and bustling pedestrians didn’t even register in John’s mind. Every passing vehicle seemed to rush by in a hazy blur. He hardly noticed the stops, turns, and lurches of Greg’s car. It was as though his brain had blocked all sensory input, as if counteracting the chaos of the day with a few minutes of heavenly peace. He welcomed the silence and calmness. With his eyes closed and head resting back on the seat, the only thing he really cared to pay attention to was Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and thigh pressed to his.

His attention was pulled back to the present when Greg turned onto Baker Street. Immediately, he noticed the four other police cars that had beaten them there. Their lights flashed rapidly, reflecting on the glare of the nearby windows. Greg pulled up to a small café called Speedy’s. John wondered why Tony had chosen to take refuge in a sandwich shop of all places. But once they were out of the car, Greg led them to the flat next door, labelled 221B. John could hear raised voices coming from inside. A woman was screaming. Something about lies, and cheating, and “after all these years.” The door opened and a colleague of Greg’s ushered them inside. The woman’s voice came clearly into earshot, sharp as a spear.

“I turned my life upside down for you! I did everything to keep you happy so you wouldn’t go near these things again! Now not only are you STILL cheating on me, but to think you nearly blew up half our city! Ohh!”

A cardboard box came flying out of a door by the staircase, tumbling on the ground and leaving several articles of men’s clothing scattered behind it. John exchanged a look with Sherlock. He remembered the day Sherlock had deduced that Tony was married and cheating on his wife with a much younger woman, who had turned out to be Leah. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were about to meet said wife in the flesh.

“We’ve got him restrained. Just looking around and collecting evidence now,” Greg’s colleague said.

Sherlock and John followed them through the door and into a quaint little flat, furnished by an assortment of antique décor that John never would’ve imagined belonged to Tony. In the kitchen, two cops had Tony handcuffed. He stood there sheepishly as more screaming burst from the hallway just beyond them.

“Rot away in prison for all I care! That’s what I say. Rot away and die alone. But if, God forbid, they ever let you out and you  _ dare  _ show your face back here, I will not hesitate to give you a good smack in the head with one of my best pans! You mark my words, Anthony Hudson!”

The voice got closer, and a petite woman emerged from the hallway carrying another box of men’s clothing. John did an instant double-take. This woman was the last person he’d imagine to be married to Tony. He’d guessed that Tony was in his late-50s or 60s. This woman was at least a decade older than that. Though clearly, she was anything but a wilting flower.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” she said sternly, beelining towards John and Sherlock.

Both of them hopped out of her way as though avoiding a feral cat. She stepped outside for a moment, and John heard the box bouncing across the foyer. When she returned, she clapped her hands as though dusting them off and put them on her hips.

“Oh good, more policemen!” she said bitterly as she watched the officers searching her belongings. “That’s exactly what I need. More men making my life a living hell without ever asking me what I want. Perfect! And who on earth are you two?”

It took John a moment to realize she was talking to them.

“Sorry. John Watson, hi,” he said, lifting a hand politely. “And this is Sherlock.”

“Not policemen, are you?” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, eyeing their ordinary pedestrian clothes. Her harsh gaze softened a touch when she looked over John’s torn shirt and the wounds visible underneath.

John glanced at Greg, who was busy carelessly overturning her couch pillows. Perhaps, he thought, it’d be best not to tell her they’d been invited as honorary cops.

“Uh, no. We just came along because . . .”

“We had inside information about today’s events. But we’re not cops, no,” Sherlock finished for him. John looked to him, silently praising his perfect answer – tactfully phrased and technically not a lie.

The woman looked carefully between the two of them. Her firm expression melted into one of warmth and hospitality.

“Well, as long as you’re helping to put that useless man behind bars for life, you’re welcome here anytime. Martha Hudson.”

She stuck her hand out, and Sherlock and John each shook it in turn. In the living room, two policemen were tearing through what looked like a box of family albums. One of them fell, and pictures scattered everywhere

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Mrs. Hudson cried out in distress, putting a hand to her heart.

“If you’re looking for evidence that would be worth a damn in court, you’d have better luck checking his electronics,” Sherlock said.

“His laptop is password protected,” an officer said.

“Allow me.”

Sherlock walked over to the desk. The cops quickly abandoned the albums and followed him. They settled around him, watching as he was no doubt about to deduce the password quicker than any hacker. John looked back to Mrs. Hudson, who smiled with gratitude.

“Biscuits, dear?” she said suddenly. “I’ve got some in the cabinet.”

She zipped toward the kitchen before John could even decline out of politeness. Though he was secretly grateful. He hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast at Molly and Sally’s flat that morning. His stomach whined impatiently as he watched Mrs. Hudson come back with a box of biscuits. A nearby officer trailed her with a hopeful look in his eyes.

“None for you!” she said, pointing a stern finger.  

John couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched two massive policemen leap out of the way for the tiny woman.

“Here you are,” she said, allowing him to take a few out of the box. “Now, what on earth happened to your clothes, dear?” She touched the torn flap of his shirt. “And your skin, oh my . . .”

John folded the cloth over his torso to cover the blotched and mangled surface that was his chest. “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

He honestly hadn’t thought about it since escaping Evans’ house. Though now that he remembered, his inflamed stitches burned lightly at his side. He put a hand to them, reassuring himself that they were still intact and there was nothing to worry about.

“Come with me. Let me get you something to change into.”

With that, she turned back down the hallway she’d come from. John followed behind as though being pulled by an invisible leash. They entered the bedroom, where all of Tony’s belongings had been sloppily stuffed into boxes and bins. But rather than pull something out of one of them, she opened the closet and reached to the very back. She came back with a dark green, button-down shirt that seemed to be in John’s size. She handed it to him, and he quickly switched it with the torn one.

“Ohhh . . .” she said. “You look so handsome. This belonged to my first husband, Clark. Oh my, you wear it so well.”

She reached out and gently patted the chest pockets. John got the feeling she was saying goodbye to it.

“You don’t have to give this to me. I can just take something of Tony’s. An old t-shirt or something,” he said, already preparing to start unbuttoning.

“Oh, no. You deserve better than that, my dear. Clark’s shirts aren’t doing any good collecting dust in the closet. Go on and take it.”

John patted down the material, smoothing out the few creases that had come from being stuffed in a closet, probably for years. He had to say, the dark green looked sharp on him. The cut was nearly perfect for his shape.

“Thank you so much,” he said.

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the cheek like a child. “Anytime. You’re a good boy, John.”

The childish compliment felt odd, but also cozy in a way. Like an unexpected hug from a mother. It warmed John from the inside, in a way he hadn’t felt since he was a young boy. A light knock came at the bedroom door.

“John?” came Sherlock’s voice. “They’re taking Tony now.”

Mrs. Hudson crossed the room and squeezed past Sherlock. “Oh good. I’d like to see this.”

Sherlock and John followed her outside, careful not to step on the clothes scattered along the floor. Outside, every police car on the street was pulled up to 221B. The lights flashed brightly in the evening darkness, drawing the attention of every passerby.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Mrs. Hudson shouted. “This is sure to scare off all potential renters for the upstairs rooms.”

John glanced up, and sure enough there were two other windows above the ground floor, though they didn’t look occupied at the moment. He felt a stab of pity for her. If rent money was her only source of income, she was certainly caught in a rough spot, especially with Tony gone. This whole debacle was sure to put a black mark on Baker Street’s reputation. But having Speedy’s right next door might partially make up for it, he thought. In fact, he himself was desperately craving some chips.

“Good riddance,” Mrs. Hudson muttered as Tony was shoved into the backseat of a police car. “I tell you, if he ever shows up back here-”

“Your best pans, we know,” droned an officer beside them.

John nearly snapped his neck turning to glare at the man. His attitude towards Mrs. Hudson had ignited some innate, protective instinct in him. As though the man had insulted his own mother. The officer shrunk under John’s glare, and even faltered back a step.

Greg appeared at his shoulder. “You fellas ready to head out?” he asked John and Sherlock.

“I think so, yes,” Sherlock said. “Unless there’s any other part of your job you need help with.”

Greg chuckled in good nature. “No, actually uh . . .” He trailed off. There was something cautiously delicate about the way he spoke. He averted his eyes to avoid Sherlock’s, blinking rapidly.  “I, uh, got a call that you’re wanted back at the precinct.”

“Me?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah. Well, all of us. But yeah, you.”

Sherlock looked at John. His expression cooled. “I suppose they want statements. And to assess how involved we were in all this.”

“Not exactly,” Greg said still looking anywhere but at them. “I told you I’d cover for you, didn’t I? Just . . . come on. I’ll explain when we get there.”

Greg turned on his heels and walked up to his car. After exchanging a quick glance, Sherlock followed. John stayed behind a moment.

“Thanks again for everything, Mrs. Hudson,” he said.

Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek and straightened out the front of his shirt for him. “Of course, dear. You’re welcome back anytime.” 

John took her hand and squeezed it, finding that part of him didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to stay, help her clean her flat after the policemen no doubt left it a wreck. He wanted to have tea with her, make sure she was alright being left alone.

He let go of her hand with difficulty. With a smile, he turned and joined Sherlock in the backseat of Greg’s car.

“You alright?” Sherlock asked, quietly so that Greg couldn’t hear.

John returned Mrs. Hudson’s wave through the window and thought over the past day – the nauseous twisting in his stomach as he watched the timers ticking down, the cold terror he felt while Evans climbed on top of him, the crushing anxiety of seeing St. Bart’s swarming with cops, and the overwhelming relief when he and Sherlock stopped the last bomb. The calmness in his heart when it was all over and the certainty that he wouldn’t have done anything different if he could go back to the beginning and start over.

“Yeah. I actually am,” he said.

Sherlock smiled at him and took his hand. Greg reversed out of their parking spot and drove away, leaving Baker Street behind.

***

Greg parked in front of New Scotland Yard and walked John and Sherlock inside. The place was bustling with employees on overdrive. Phones were ringing off the hook. Journalists were interviewing officers and gathering B-roll for their stories. Civilians – presumably witnesses – were being interviewed in several rooms with clear glass walls. 

Greg led them to an area towards the back, where it was a bit quieter and less crowded. He walked quicker than usual, as if on edge. The whole time, he avoided eye contact with both Sherlock and John. That is, until he suddenly slowed to a stop before turning a corner. He rocked on his feet for a moment, looking at the floor. 

“Uh, Sherlock?” he said.

“What?”

Greg looked up at him with a mix of sympathy and concern. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried reading his expression, but John could practically see the question marks in his head where a mad rush of deductions should have been.

“After the bomb squad finished up at Buckingham, we got a call . . .” Greg trailed off and sighed. He looked like he was about to deliver terrible news. Or shocking news. Or something that required preparation for Sherlock. John gently touched Sherlock’s elbow, silently conveying his support through whatever was about to happen.

“There’s someone here to see you . . .” he trailed off again, searching for words, but then sighed defeatedly. “Just come here.”

He led them around the corner. John and Sherlock exchanged a worried glance. They followed him to a small, mostly empty area. John looked around – nothing in particular stood out until Sherlock went rigid as a statue beside him and his eyes zeroed in on something across the room.

John followed his gaze to a tall man in a pin-striped suit. He stood with one ankle crossed over the other, leaning on a black umbrella. He was looking right back at Sherlock. John traced the direct line of their connected gazes back and forth. Neither blinked, nor moved, nor even breathed, it seemed. The man’s face twisted into something painful. His skin was etched with lines that John knew were not from age, but from stress.

“Brother mine,” he said weakly, his voice catching slightly at the end. 

Sherlock was still frozen in his thousand-yard stare. He took a shaky step towards the man, then another. Then he was walking forward as if floating until he was right in front of him. The man propped his umbrella against the wall and lifted his freed hands. They hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment before slowly encircling Sherlock’s back as though he wasn’t sure if it was okay to touch him. Sherlock remained stiff as a rod. But at the first touch, he nearly crumpled. He curled into the man, making him seem much smaller even though he was the taller of the two. He hugged his elbows to himself rather than hugging him back. His shoulders shook a bit, and the man cupped his head, cradling him like a child.

John looked at Greg, who was watching with misty eyes. He remembered the few times Sherlock had talked about his family – he’d spoken as though he never wanted to see them again. Like he’d been freed from their clutches and never looked back. But he also remembered that night he’d caught Sherlock high out of his mind. He’d rambled about their abandonment, how he’d disgraced them and couldn’t live with their disappointment. John had been curious about which version of events held more truth, but he’d never asked. He’d never pushed Sherlock into talking about it. And now he realized, as Sherlock trembled in the arms of this man, that he’d carried something with him for all these years – a burden, a troubling secret, a painful wound too heavy for anyone to have to bear alone.

The man buried his long nose in Sherlock’s curls. His eyebrows pinched close in that pained expression again before he pulled back. His arms stayed on Sherlock’s shoulders. The two of them watched one another for several more seconds. It was the strangest reunion John had ever seen. It was cold and distant, yet heart wrenchingly raw at the same time. It was like they wanted to embrace again, properly, but there was a barrier between them that even years of separation couldn’t break down. John saw Sherlock quickly dab at his eyes and swipe his nose before turning around. He kept his head bowed and shoulders hunched, unsuccessfully hiding his puffy eyes.

“Inspector Lestrade,” the man said, in a much firmer voice than before. “If you wouldn’t mind finding us a quiet room. My brother and I have some catching up to do.”

***

Sherlock and his brother - Mycroft – seated themselves around a corner of a large, rectangular table. Steaming cups of coffee were placed in front of both of them. The room was only somewhat private; they were isolated enough from other people, though entirely visible through the glass walls.  

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Greg said. John made to follow him out of the room.

“John stays,” Sherlock said flatly without looking at anyone in particular. He was sitting stiffly with his fingers interlocked tightly on the table. John looked between the two of them. Mycroft spared him an unsavory glance and then leaned in toward Sherlock.

“This is a family matter.”

“I know.”

Uncomfortable beats of silence passed on until Mycroft finally sighed and leaned back. John figured that was the closest he’d get to an invitation to stay. He positioned himself leaning against the wall, still feeling like it wasn’t his place to join them at the table.

“Alright then. I’ll see you fellas outside,” Greg said. With a nod at John, he left the three of them alone.

For a good minute or two, the only sound came from the steady ticking of the massive clock on the wall. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft moved an inch. If John had been a passerby outside the glass walls, he might have mistaken them for mannequins or wax figures.

“How’d you find me?” Sherlock said finally, still staring at a fixed point ahead of him. He pulled the coffee mug closer to him, but he didn’t drink.

Mycroft studied him for a moment. “You know I work in government.” Sherlock’s silence was as good as an agreement. “As soon as I heard there was a threat to our royals and most valued officials, I traced the source of the tip, which led me to you. Or a person who might’ve been you.” Here Mycroft stopped for a moment and remained still. He swallowed and pursed his lips, staring softly at Sherlock. John figured it was the Holmes brother’s equivalent of wiping away a tear. “I never gave up trying to find you,” he continued. Each word sounded carefully chosen. “But I never had even the slightest lead. Not until today at least.” He lifted his nose proudly at the end, as if to counteract the vulnerability of his words.  

The whole time, Sherlock kept his hands locked defensively around his mug. His fingertips reddened from how firmly they were pressed into the glass. His only reaction to Mycroft’s explanation was a quick flutter of his eyelashes before he glanced down sadly.

“Why did you hide from me, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked gently.

Sherlock returned to staring off at that fixed point, appearing cool and aloof. He pursed his lips for a second before answering.

“I was doing you a favor,” he said plainly. “Why couldn’t you just accept that.” Each word came out choppy and sharp, like it was being forced through his teeth.

“A favor?”

“You couldn’t even look at me. You and Mum and Dad. You hated me for what I was doing. I knew I wasn’t going to stop, so I did the hard work for you and left. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Mycroft clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together as though holding himself back. Though his eyes appeared wounded. The stressed wrinkles on his face seemed to deepen, further aging him.

“Sherlock. We never hated you. Never,” he said. His arms shifted on the table. John thought it looked like he wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock, but resisted. It was almost tragic to watch them – the way they both yearned to connect but stubbornly restrained themselves from doing so out of some misled pride. “We never wanted you to leave,” Mycroft added.

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to flash red for a moment. “You were going to send me away!” It was the first time he had raised his voice above the flat monotone in which he’d been speaking.

“To rehab!” Mycroft slapped his palm on the table unexpectedly. John flinched against the wall. “We were sending you to rehab, you . . . you absolute  _ fool! _ What part of that makes you think we wanted you out of the family? Or that we hated you? We – Mum and Dad – they loved you, Sherlock. They wanted you to get better! Don’t you understand that?!” John’s eyes were glued to Mycroft. A hole had been torn in his proudly restrained demeanor, creating an almost entirely new person in front of him. This man’s eyes flashed in anger, his teeth gritted as glared at Sherlock furiously. “Can’t you understand . . .” he continued, his voice growing hoarse. “Can’t you  _ possibly _ understand what we went through? What you put Mum through? We  _ loved _ you, Sherlock!”

When John’s eyes drifted back to Sherlock, his heart skipped a beat. Whereas mere moments ago, he had been sitting stoically with his hands locked around his mug, his eyes were now red-rimmed. His nose was puffy, and his breaths were coming in shaky gasps.  He had no response to Mycroft’s outburst. Not even surprise at the misinterpretation of his family’s intentions. 

John’s heart broke for him as he realized why; Sherlock knew – had always known – that his family loved him. He knew it was wrong to run away. He’d probably known that since the moment he left. But John tried to imagine a younger Sherlock, in his 20s. Irresponsible, reckless, in the prime of his youth and independence. And he imagined that Sherlock – shivering, cold, and wet on a street corner – deciding that it was easier to believe he’d been driven away by his family instead of humbling himself enough to return home.

He saw all this written clear as day on Sherlock’s face, as he gripped his mug for security, still unable to look his brother in the eye.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, more patiently this time. “Brother. I know I was . . . harsh. At times. But I never wanted any of this for you. I never wanted you to leave.”

Sherlock’s eyes reddened more, shining with tears that refused to fall; he already knew this as well, it seemed. His shoulders dropped as the tension seeped out of them. Mycroft leaned back in his seat. It seemed that he was done speaking. John averted his eyes to the floor, feeling like he was invading on a private moment. For a while, he only heard the soft sounds of Sherlock’s sniffling. John studied his feet, shifting them on the carpet.

“How’s Mummy?”

It was so quiet, he almost didn’t hear. When he looked up, Sherlock was still staring down into his coffee. His grip on the mug was softer, less defensive. Mycroft watched him for a second, still leaning back.

“She didn’t sleep for weeks.” Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly. “She got sick for a while. She never quite got over it. And Dad . . . he’d quieter. He lost interest in golf and art. I see him standing in front of the family portrait sometimes, just looking at you.”

Sherlock released a shaky breath. The corners of his eyes drooped. Red pockets hung underneath them.

“Come home, Sherlock,” Mycroft said gently.

John saw Sherlock’s fingers tremble for a moment before they curled into loose fists. He pursed his lips, then nodded several times in rapid succession.

John blinked, and an unexpected tear delicately landed under his eye. His lips twitched in what could have been a smile if he allowed it to be. From merely watching the exchange, he felt as emotionally drained as Sherlock looked. Though he could feel the shift in the room’s environment - the tense air had eased, the heavy beats of silence no longer swallowed them. A new energy swept through the room - something reviving and freeing but also painful, like chains being unshackled but leaving behind a burning imprint. And John felt nothing but proud of Sherlock for it.

Sherlock slouched in the chair, finally releasing every remaining bit of tension in his body. He buried his face in his hands. His fingers curled into his bangs. John walked over and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, rubbing lightly. Though Sherlock didn’t move, he felt him lean slightly into the contact. John continued rubbing in slow, soft circles.

Across the table, Mycroft eyed him with curiosity.

“John Watson, hi,” he said, sticking his hand out.

Mycroft looked at it, then smiled bitterly at him. “Yes. School dropout, thief, killer, and assistant to a hitman for four years.” John slowly retracted his hand and let it fall awkwardly to his side. “How did you become acquainted with my brother?”

“Through . . . work.”

Mycroft hummed judgmentally, telling him he knew exactly what “work” that was.

John rocked clumsily on his feet. He felt it was a bit hypocritical for Mycroft to judge him on his criminal past considering Sherlock had committed his fair share of law-breaking as well, but now wasn’t the time to argue about it. Mycroft stared at him critically for a moment longer before checking his phone. He lifted a thin eyebrow.

“I’m afraid duty calls, gentlemen. All members of parliament have fallen into absolute chaos over today’s events. I must take my leave.”

Sherlock lifted his head out of his hands. The red in his eyes, nose, and cheeks had calmed down. Though his bottom lashes clung together from wetness. They watched Mycroft walk to the glass door and pull it open. Right before he left, he paused and turned.

A soft, sincere smile played at his lips. “I’ll hold you to your promise, brother mine.”

John looked at Sherlock, who didn’t smile back, but lowered his eyes in acknowledgement. For the two of them, it was as good as a parting hug. With that, Mycroft left. Sherlock stood shortly after. John kept his hand on his back. When he caught his eye, he offered a supportive smile. Sherlock then stood just a bit taller, and John swelled with pride for him. He offered his hand, waited for him to take it, and led him out of the room.

***

Back at the front of the precinct, Greg noticed them coming and excused himself from his group of colleagues.

“All good?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

Greg glanced to John, who smiled in confirmation. A pleased grin stretched across his face.

“I’m glad. Is there anything else I can help you fellas with?”

“No. I think we’ll just be heading home. It’s been a long day,” Sherlock said. John rubbed his arm comfortingly, noticing how he hadn’t taken the opportunity for a snide remark as he normally might have.

Greg called a cab for them. Once it pulled up, they said their goodbyes and walked out. Night had fallen over London. The sidewalks were emptier. Distant vehicles were no longer visible except as two small lights.

Home – John repeated in his head. He thought of his flat, which he hadn’t been in in what felt like forever. He thought of his own bed, waiting for them. His kitchen, his toilet, his bathtub (his oils in particular). All simple necessities that he’d missed greatly. But the idea of returning didn’t bring him the comfort or relief he’d expected. He almost didn’t want to go back. That flat was filled with memories of the darkest and lowest point he’d ever reached in his life. And according to Greg, all evidence of these last few years would be wiped clean from his record. Going back to his old home almost felt like tainting his clean slate. Plus, there was the issue of rent, now that he and Sherlock were both out of jobs. But after experiencing homelessness, he knew it was silly to be anything but grateful for having a home to go to.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked as they slid into the backseat of the cab.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just . . . feel weird about going back. After all this.”

Sherlock gave his knee a quick squeeze. “We’ll work it out. I know we will.”

“I know, it’s just . . . I almost wish we could start fresh. Completely.”

Sherlock tactfully looked away. John knew he was probably trying to figure out a delicate way to tell him how unrealistic he was being. They had a fully functioning home already. All their belongings were there. They couldn’t afford anything nicer anyway, unless some extremely generous landlord or lady cut them an amazing deal. John knew that, and yet it did nothing to ease the dread in his stomach.

“Well, maybe down the line . . . at some point, we could see,” Sherlock said.

John put a hand on his thigh, thanking Sherlock for pretending to indulge him, and allowed the subject to drop.

“So, where to?” the cabbie said.

Sherlock started to give the address to the flat, but John’s arm suddenly bolted out to stop him. An idea had just crossed his mind. It was the most absurd thing to consider. Completely out of the blue. And yet it was also the most reasonable thing in the world. In fact, it was almost too perfect . . .

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John could feel the crazy look in his eyes and knew he must look like a madman. Excitement bubbled in him as he tried to come up with a reason, any reason at all, to not go through with this ridiculous spontaneity; his mind came up short. He gave Sherlock a look that said to trust him and caught the cabbie’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

“221B Baker Street, please.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you can! I really appreciate them <33  
> For those of you who have just started school again, I hope everything is going great!
> 
> Also, this is now my first (and probably only) fic to pass 100k words! Yay!


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